


the cathedral songs

by pyotr



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Trans Male Character, Trans Pierre, so jot that down, these are all unrelated drabbles that i've posted on tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-26 09:14:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 78
Words: 22,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12055869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyotr/pseuds/pyotr
Summary: “yes, selfish,” andrei tells him severely, not looking at him. “you’re always running away, pierre. first from your father, then from your wife. now, from everything that happened in moscow. i don’t have time to look after you, tomorrow- it’s going to be bloody, men will die, and i can’t… i can’t.”





	1. andrei/pierre

**Author's Note:**

> a collection of unrelated works that i've posted on my tumblr (transpierre). will put the pairing and whether or not each work is NSFW in the chapter title.

they sit together, side by side, not speaking. it’s quiet inside the little cabin, but the camp outside is bustling and busy; pierre can see the blazing campfires surrounded by huddled soldiers from the window. he wanted to say something, anything, but andrei is still prickled with mingled worry and annoyance at his presence, so he keeps quiet.

“are you really so selfish?” andrei asks him after what feels like decades sat in stony silence. 

pierre winces.  _“selfish?”_

“yes, selfish,” andrei tells him severely, not looking at him. “you’re always running away, pierre. first from your father, then from your wife. now, from everything that happened in moscow. i don’t have time to look after you, tomorrow- it’s going to be bloody, men will die, and i can’t…. i can’t.”

“i don’t- i’m not-” pierre flounders for a moment, offended and hurt, but he can’t object. he  _has_ always run away rather than face things. “i’m not  _asking_ you to look after me, andrei, i can take care of myself perfectly well-”

“go home, pierre,” andrei sighs, sounding very, very tired.

“and watch you leave again?” pierre contests, hotly. “because you will, in one way or another. death will take you, or you’ll venture off with the army. i’m not the only one who runs away, andrei.”

“pierre, i’ve got nothing-”

“marya, nikolushka,  _natasha,”_ pierre is the one to cut him off this time, standing, cheeks flushed with frustration. “by god, andrei, the girl adores you, she  _still_ does. you have people who care about you, people who  _love you.”_

and andrei look at him, finally, looking almost surprised, almost dazed. “you’re not talking of countess rostova, are you?”

“of course i’m not talking about natasha,” pierre steams, and oh, it  _aches_ to have her name fall off his tongue so casually, like so much a throwaway word. 

“you still–?”

“andrei, dear friend,” pierre says gravely, sinking back down into his chair. he feels very tired, suddenly, worn to the bone. he’s so, so tired of running. “of course i do. i’ve never stopped.”


	2. andrei/pierre, NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tagged as underage because pierre is 17 and andrei is 24/25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tagged as underage because pierre is 17 and andrei is 24/25

he is visiting from france for a time- ostensibly to visit his father, though pierre has hardly seen the man, exchanged maybe ten words with him- fresh-faced and still smelling of parisian perfume. he is seventeen years old and it is only the second time he had been back to russia since his first departure.

instead, he spends much of his time at the various bolkonsky estates, following close on andrei’s heels. they spend the days together, pouring over books or walking through town, then take dinner with marya or between the two of them or, on one memorable occasion, with andrei’s father, who indulged pierre’s idealism with a strange mixture of delight and disdain.

(personally, pierre felt as if the old man was simply eager to have someone to argue with, given andrei’s cool passivity and marya’s meekness, and pierre was more than willing to occupy that role.)

they stay up late into the night, the two of them, talking about books and life and love, the last of which pierre believes he had only ever experienced once in his life. the gravitate towards each other over the course of hours, each of them shedding their shoes and loosening their collars, words tapering off as the last of the wine is drained between the two of them.

the first kiss is something sweet, something hesitant- a bare brush of lips. they had kissed before, of course, things stolen around corners or in the dark. the second is more firm, pierre’s hands curling into andrei’s blouse and pulling him closer, andrei’s hand settling warm on his knee.

he can taste the wine on andrei’s lips- almost, faint- feels andrei’s grip on his knee tighten, leaning in. he feels buoyant, light-headed, short of breath; deliciously so. when he breaks the kiss to breathe, their noses bump and andrei’s face is very, very close, his eyes dark and warm with tenderness and the candlelight.

pierre isn’t sure who moves first but then they are kissing again and the warmth is  _more,_ more flame than smoulder, and andrei’s teeth dig into his lip just hard enough to make him gasp, surprised. a hand comes up to cradle his jaw, palm pressed against the side of his neck, fingers curled around his nape; both grounding and controlling, keeping him in place, and pierre is  _almost_ embarrassed at the hammering of his own pulse.

“are you sure?” the words are whispered, a gust of hot breath, andrei’s lips brushing against his own. it takes pierre a muddled second to understand but then he nods, almost frantically; he can feel andrei’s hand creeping up his thigh and is sure that his already blotchy blush is darkening, if the flash of amusement that flickers in andrei’s smile is any indication.

“yes, yes, i-”

“calm down.” and andrei’s voice is so stern and steady that pierre’s mouth snaps shut, he breathes in deep, can’t help but squirm just a bit. because andrei is there, so close to him, just  _looking_ at him with his hand so high up on his thigh, and pierre felt as if he might implode. 

and then andrei moved to begin undoing the buttons of his blouse.

he doesn’t know why he didn’t expect it, when andrei asked  _are you sure._ he hadn’t said anything, hadn’t explained- andrei didn’t  _know-_ pierre makes a soft sound has fingertips graze his throat, his collarbone, and he can all but feel something hard and cold settle into the pit of his stomach as andrei pauses, tracing the linen binding that peeks from under his shirt.

“pierre, what?”

“i’m not hurt,” are the first words out of his mouth, tumbling and clumsy, and pierre can feel them choking him. he makes some vague gesture and there’s no animosity in andrei’s face, no suspicion, just a vague sort of curiosity to be indulged. “i just- i don’t have… the parts. the right ones.”

“so you don’t…” the question trails off, as if too embarrassed to be completed.

“no.” short, to the point.

“hm.” andrei slips off the couch and pierre feels the panic rising for half a second before he kneels between pierre’s spread thighs. andrei takes pierre’s face in both hands, brings him down into another kiss; curious, probing. asking,  _do you still want this?_

pierre tangles his fingers in andrei’s hair, answers,  _yes._

it is good that they are back to the unspoken, to the silent, to the shared glances and understood meanings, and pierre settles back into his skin, andrei’s hands sliding over his collarbone and carefully down the center of his chest to resume unbuttoning. andrei kisses skin as it is exposed, a scrape of teeth at the hollow of his throat that makes pierre tilt his chin back, lips pressed briefly against his ribs in a way that forced a shiver down his spine.

and just like that, all is right again.

almost immediately after all the buttons are undone pierre struggles to shrug off his blouse, tangling his hands in his haste, and andrei laughs a little, helps him out of it. they share another kiss, something soft and tender, and pierre sneaks his fingers down the back of andrei’s collar, scrapes his nails lightly over andrei’s nape. 

andrei shivers, and rushes to pull off his own shirt.

they both pause a moment, measuring the difference between them, and pierre cannot help but find himself lacking. he is soft and round and freckled and  _wrong,_ grotesque in the face of andrei’s lean muscle and flat chest, his collarbones and the hollow of his throat thrown into sharp relief by the candlelight.

pierre reaches for the fastening on his chest binding, says, “do you mind?”

“no, of course not.”

pierre thinks himself lucky that, even with his weight- too round even with his flowering, governesses and the abbess  _tsk_ ing and shaking their heads in pity at him- he had small breasts, easy to bind, easy to hide. he unwinds the panel of linen now and breathes in deep and andrei watches him with something akin to rapture, but when pierre looks closer his eyes are warm, mouth quirked in a tiny smile, something that makes pierre want to kiss him desperately. so he does.

and andrei’s hands settle on his hips, grip tight, nails digging into his skin perhaps just a bit too hard. pierre doesn’t mind- the sting startles a soft moan from him, muffled between the two of them, makes him squirm.  it’s good like this, for a while; there’s some fumbling of course, pierre moving andrei’s hands away from sensitive spots, andrei hissing out a quiet curse pierre bites down nearly hard enough to draw blood.

his hands go to the buttons on pierre’s trousers, and pierre pauses for only a fleeting moment before giving a shaky nod.

it’s a bit of a struggle to try and pull off his trousers  _and_ his stockings  _and_ his drawers but they manage it, the both of them grinning- pierre more so than andrei, his cheeks apple-red, blush blotchy down his neck and across his bare chest- and in the end andrei just tosses the whole bundle aside, perhaps exasperated by the whole exercise, which only sends pierre into another fit of nervous giggles.

it’s strange, to be so bare in front of someone you’ve loved for so long, so vulnerable.

he is struck by instinct to cover himself, to press his knees together and cross his arms across his chest, but he fights it off, curls his fingers instead into the plush fabric of the sofa and stares hard at the flickering flames in the hearth just over andrei’s shoulder. if the prince should be disgusted by him, well, so be it- covering himself would hardly mitigate that.

but no, he  _trusted_ andrei. he was his closest friend. 

andrei exhales, a little like a sigh, a little like relief, and brushes a kiss against the inside of pierre’s knee, nips lightly at the soft skin of his inner thigh so that pierre jerks slightly in surprise. andrei’s eyes are closed, dark lashes kissing his cheeks in the dim light from the candles and the fireplace, and pierre relaxes, a little, until andrei shifts, pulling both of pierre’s knees over his shoulders. the action is so sudden, so contextually ridiculous, that it startles a little laugh out of pierre, a sound that melts easily enough into a reedy whine.

it’s not something wildly passionate, not all-consuming, nothing at all like pierre had imagined- but it’s pleasant nonetheless, in other ways, ways that make pierre sigh, his head lolling against the back of the couch. andrei’s thumbs press against his hipbones, and he feels fit to shake apart at the seams.

they kiss, afterwards, tender, pierre combing his fingers through andrei’s hair, andrei’s breaths coming in warm gusts against pierre’s throat as they lay together on the couch. they will have to vacate it soon, pierre knows, and retreat to their respective rooms and empty beds, but it’s nice to just lay like this for a little bit, treasure the moment wrapped in warmth and something like love.


	3. andrei/pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierre, Andrei, and Natasha taking care of a Very Sick little Nikolushka and Andrei getting freaked out and Very Anxious and Pierre and Natasha comforting him

the doctor had said he had the flux, had said to give him plenty of water and easy foods like broths and pieces of bread. natasha had hummed, combed her fingers through poor nikolushka’s sweaty hair, and andrei had drawn in a deep, shaky breath.

 _the flux._ pierre had arrived home later and frowned at the news, shrugging out of his coat and kicking off his shoes in the foyer. he had gone up to see nikolushka, alone, and had spent some time up there. natasha, when she pressed her ear to the door, could hear the soft rise and fall of pierre’s voice, caught in telling some story, and nikolushka’s rasping breaths. 

he gives them both a heavy look when he comes into the drawing room, his waistcoat unbuttoned and his blouse untucked, and says, “he’s fallen asleep.”

andrei lets his head fall into his hands, his elbows propped on his knees. though he hadn’t said it, natasha knew that he was terrified of losing his son; little nikolai was all that remained in the world of lise, and despite the fact that andrei scarcely knew how to handle him, the father loved his son dearly.

“i can’t,” he says, and then stops, gives a shuddering sigh. “i can’t lose him.”

“it’s the flux,” pierre says practically, settling heavily next to andrei on the couch, though natasha could see the strain in his expression even as he loops his arm over andrei’s shoulders. andrei leans into him, almost bonelessly. “all kinds of children get the flux- all kinds of  _adults_ get the flux. he’ll be fine, darling. he’ll  _live.”_

natasha catches his eye and smiles, small and soft, thankful. she could hold andrei and try to console him until she was blue in the face, but she felt as if it would always seem to ring false; she simply had never been as genuine in her words of comfort as pierre. he smiles back, more weary, and leans over to press a kiss to andrei’s hair, who simply sighs in response.


	4. andrei/pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrierretasha+first snow

natasha had always loved the snow, pressed to the window when the first flakes began to fall, eyes wide and wondrous and childlike in their awe. it doesn’t stick- the earth is still too warm, the morning sunlight burning too brightly- but the fact does little to dampen her enthusiasm. at the first blush of winter, though, when the snow is ankle high and falling fast, natasha will rush out the door in a burst of delighted laughter, coat half-buttoned, her cheeks flush with excitement.

she will turn, then, and look back toward the porch where pierre and andrei stand and watch her, pierre’s expression indulgent and andrei’s indescribably soft. her boots will be untied and the hem of her gown will be caked with snow, but natasha is unbothered; her face is bright and open and radiant with joy.


	5. andrei/pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ok but i think i need some stuff abt andrierretasha all struggling to cope w pierres alcoholism. sad but necessary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for alcoholism, ofc

some days are worse than others.

some days he can smile, he can make himself be productive and active and his hands only shake a little. he can laugh with natasha and read with andrei and the three of them are happy, talking warmly over the dinner table, and pierre’s fingers only graze the wine glass.

some days he spirals. it is all dark and awful and he thinks that, if only he could drink enough, he would be able to feel warm again. the wine tastes bitter on the back of his tongue, the vodka burns on its way down, and the bottom of the glass is his best friend.

other times, even on days that he doesn’t have a drop to drink, he is angry and snappish. andrei is cold in every response and natasha watches him with wide, hurt eyes, and this only makes him angrier. he rages, smashes tables and throws glass carafes against the wall. and he is afraid, afraid of this temper that rises in him, his father’s legacy, his  _bezukhov blood._

none of them like to let the servants deal with the aftermath of his anger. the three of them come together in silence, andrei gathering the broken table legs and tossing them into the empty hearth, natasha bent over pierre’s bloodied hand as she picks out splinters and shards of glass. they are both cold to him, and he thinks that he deserves it.


	6. andrei/pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anyone loving anyone with the prompt "You never knew how you made me feel."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> andrei's dead

he is angry when he learns the manner of andrei’s death, feels a hot, burning sort of rage that makes him scream and smash things. he sits there like that in his room of ruined things for some time- hours, days, perhaps even weeks spend amongst shattered glass and ruined furniture- drinking himself sick on wine first, and then vodka.

the grief comes later, a sharp, stabbing thing that steals his breath and leaves him wracked with gasping sobs. he pulls the blankets tight around himself, presses his back against the wall; no one comes to disturb him except the servants, who quietly slide plates of food into his room and retrieve them some hours later, barely touched.   
  
marya comes to him, at some point, laden with a box of andrei’s things and unperturbed by his sullen silence. instead she settles next to him on the floor, her legs folded neatly to the side, and begins emptying the crate she had brought with her- books, letters, shirts and socks various miscellania that pierre had long forgotten at the bolkonsky household.   
  
“you were his dearest friend, you know,” she tells hims softly, folding a shirt that was too fine to be pierre’s and handing it over. pierre holds it gingerly, runs his thumbs over the soft material, presses it to his face- one of andrei’s. “sometimes i think he confided more in you than he ever did myself.”

pierre doesn’t answer immediately, just closes his eyes and breathes in deep. half-drunk and half-mad with grief, he thinks he can almost pretend that andrei is here, safe and  _alive._

“i never,” pierre starts, then pauses, clears his throat. his voice is hoarse from tears and disuse. “i never, never told him-”

“he knew,” marya interrupts gently, because of course  _she_ also knew, sweet woman. her eyes are soft, her lips turned in a comforting smile. “i’m certain that he knew, dear.”


	7. pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> writing prompt (bc ur writing makes me cry): Pierre, after being away for sometime, seeing Natasha. What it feels like, what it sounds like, how he greets her when he returns, etc.

he had left not long after the wedding to see to his serfs and tenant farmers, to take stock his estates for the first time since his imprisonment. it was tedious, almost torturous work, and he ached to be away from natasha so soon, but it wasn’t something that he could send another in his stead.

now, though, it seemed as if the carriage was moving unnaturally slow up the drive, gravel crunching beneath the wheels. he could see natasha standing outside, alongside a few servants, her summer dress and shawl painted in jewel tones of ruby and sapphire against the chold white of the manor walls.

he taps his fingers against the wood panelling, bounces his knee impatiently. finally, as the carriage draws nearer and nearer pierre simply throws open the door and takes his chances leaping out, stumbling, nearly falling. but he  _doesn’t,_ and he can hear natasha’s delighted laughter, her footsteps light over loose stones.

they run to each other and pierre scoops her up midstride, lifts her into the air, her shawl falling free and to the ground. her laughter is like bells, her face bright and radiant, and he feels as if he is to drown in the joy that wells in him. he spins them both and natasha winds her arms around his neck, drawing him in to press a kiss to his forehead.

“you’re home,” natasha says, whispery, almost disbelieving, but  _happy._

“i’m home,” pierre agrees.


	8. andrei/pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe a prompt but can I get uhhh Andrey and Natasha making pierre feel better about like things like taking off his binder or periods ?? Ur local trans man loves Pierre being loved

they help him, sometimes, with the little things- things he forgets, or things he can’t bring himself to do. andrei hangs his binders up to dry when he forgets them soaking in the bathroom sink; natasha helps him with injections when his hands shake too badly to do them properly. 

they hold him when he feels too big or too small for his body, when the world gets to be too much; they are both so good for him, are  _too_ good for him. he doesn’t know how to repay their kindness- understated and quiet, in andrei’s case, and effusive and affectionate in natasha’s- but he does his best to show them the love that is overflowing in him.


	9. dolokhov/pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gimme some of that sweet Fyotr angst, please

he is pulled up and out of the snow and pierre thinks,  _is this how i die?_

fedya’s arms are holding him close, strong and sturdy and almost too tight. pierre clings to him with a feeble strength borne of starvation and illness, tucks his face against the scratchy wool of fedya’s greatcoat. 

“petrushka,” fedya’s voice is soft, awed, almost reverent, and pierre shudders as his his hot breath rolls over his skin. he is so, so  _cold._ and then, louder, “come help over here!”

pierre feels the tears welling in his eyes and is surprised; he had given up crying weeks ago. every breath burns, and he feels so cold and so hot at the same time, so weak.

“thank you,” he say breathlessly, almost sobbing, shaky voice pressed against fedya’s shoulder. “dolokhov, my friend, thank you, thank you.”

he wakes up some time later, lucid for the first time in what seems like years, and absolutely ravenous. catiche watches him eat with a curled lip- for it had been she who oversaw his estates during his imprisonment, no doubt convinced that, with helene’s death, all was hers- and sets down her own cutlery with dainty hands.

“there was a man here to see you during your convalescence,” she tells him disdainfully, somehow managing to look down on him despite his own advantage of height. “a soldier, by the looks of him. i turned him away- several times.”

“did- did he happen to leave a name?”

catiche waves her hand, dismissive, as if the entire conversation were beneath her. “i don’t remember. he was one of those miscreants who kept the company of that animal  _kuragin._ i’ve no doubt that he’s only come to beg for money to drink or whore away.”

pierre pauses, doesn’t even take umbrage at her final statement. there was no one else it could be except for dolokhov- and that was what confused him. they had made their peace before borodino, but fyodor had treated him so tenderly upon his rescue, almost sweetly. there had never been any love between them- at least, none that pierre knew was returned- and so he had no reason to have been so kind, nor any to come and visit.

“i think,” pierre says, slowly and decisively, “that i will call upon him soon.”


	10. andrei/pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how to ask this eloquently so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ here goes: PLEASE THE ANDRIERRE FLUFFSMUT I WANT

they had kissed a few times before, stolen touches in dark corners, meaningful glances, roving hands. it was all very clandestine, charming in its covertness, and pierre had never expected anything more to come of it, especially not with andrei to be married so soon, and to such a lovely little woman.

(he supposed he had an idealized view of love and life and marriage, especially for a bastard. lise was so sweet and so kind, and andrei was an honorable man- and surely, pierre himself was nothing special compared to such a wonderful wife.)

now, though, a mere week before the wedding, pierre has called upon andrei at the petersburg house and found himself upon the bed, flushed and panting. his jacket and waistcoat had been discarded on the floor somewhere, uncaring, and his shoes and stockings had been removed as well. 

andrei straddles him in a similar state of undress, blouse halfway undone. he looks almost composed, save for his wide pupils and kiss-swollen lips. they stay there a moment, looking at each other, and pierre spares a moment to wonder how he could have let it go so far before pulling andrei back in for another kiss.


	11. andrei/pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can I get uhhh Pierre seeking help for mental illness and his partners being supportive

he knows how others see him, how they titter behind their hands when he passes, talking about his eccentricism and and his dull-headedness and his  _illness._ they pity him, they mock him; they still talk about his marriage to helene and how awful it must have been for her, dear girl. 

he tries not to let it get to him.

sometimes, though, it’s hard to breathe beneath the weight of the disappointment he’d made of himself. he’d been blessed with money and power and the finest schooling in europe, what what had he done with it? he’d drunk himself into a stupor and drove away everyone in his life willing to love him.

_so much wasted promise._

he’ll tangle his fingers in his hair and bury himself in his books until the early hours of the morning and both natasha and andrei will welcome him with open arms when he comes to bed, all soft hands and sleepy, open-mouthed kisses.

he loves them both, loves them dearly, but he can’t explain it to them, what goes on in his head. they don’t expect him to, though; they don’t expect anything of him, and he is so infinitely grateful for them.


	12. pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Natasha hears about Pierre being missing after the abandonment of Moscow, the presumption being that he's either imprisoned or dead. (I love your writing by the way!!! It's very poetic.)

the bezukhov estate in petersburg had lain empty since the countess’s death, and the estate in moscow- like most others- had been abandoned in the face of the french advance.

unlike most others, however, count bezukhov had not appeared to reclaim his holdings, and it was only by the grace and power of marya bolkonskaya that both the moscow and petersburg houses remained empty and unoccupied.

natasha, for one, fretted over pierre’s continued absence. he was dead, or worse- a prisoner. but there was no word from the french about having such an important- and wealthy!- hostage, no attempts at ransom. it seemed as if pierre had simply faded to dust after she had lost sight of him in the crowds last september.

“he’ll come back to us,” marya tells her when the waiting gets to be too much, marya who keeps the bezukhov estates staffed and intact, marya who took them all into her home with a smile and  _thanked_ them for it. “pierre has always been far stronger than he seems. god won’t take him from us now, not when he is so dearly needed.”


	13. andrei/pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> andrei/natasha/pierre cuddling pierre is in the middle

it’s one of the bad nights, one of the nights where his hands won’t stop shaking and he feels so ill at ease in his own skin that he might be sick.

natasha had tucked a blanket around his shoulders and settled against his right side, leaning into him with a comforting weight. andrei had pushed a cup of tea in his his hands and sat to his left, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, and pierre sags against him wearily. 

it was silent between the three of them save for the sound of soft breaths and pierre sighs, pulls the blanket up around his ears. even now, when it was hard to think past the deep dark in his head, he was full to drowning with love for them both.


	14. andrei/pierre/natasha

she wakes up at night in a cold sweat, sometimes, with andrei’s name on her lips.

pierre lays beside her, blissfully unaware; his face is soft and unburdened in sleep, and she spares a moment to comb her fingers through his hair before wiggling out from under his arm. she walk to the window in nothing but her nightgown, shivering at the chilly air against her damp skin, and she wraps her arms around herself.

she closes her eyes, and she sees andrei’s face, pale and cold and still in death.

and she dreams of him, of his bruised and battered face, the slight smile to his lips as he had forgiven her. “i love you,” he’d said, voice low and strained and little more than a whisper, and her heart had broken for him. “i love you perhaps more than i did before.”

she had spent  _so long_ dreaming of him, of being his wife, of having his children. of loving him, every day for the rest of her life. and yet- here she was years down the line, neither his wife nor the mother of his children, but still in love with him with every fiber of her being. 

not to say that she didn’t love pierre as well, but- it was different, with him. it wasn’t the all-consuming, overwhelming adoration that she had held for andrei. it was something gentler, something softer, hot coals to a flame; it was something that had always been there, she thought, from the moment she had first seen him.

and she thinks, sometimes, that pierre understood, how he got so sad looking at nikolushka, who was beginning to resemble his father more and more every day. pierre had known andrei most of his life, she knew, and he had felt the loss as keenly as she had- the loss of a friend, the loss of a lover.

but she dreams of him, sometimes. of his smile, or how the world had seemed brighter when he had laughed. the first time he had kissed her in the snow. and every time, she awoke cold and lonely, hungry for a feeling she couldn’t quite name.


	15. andrei/pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> andrierre + hands?

their hands are of a size, pressed palm to palm. pierre’s fingers are slightly shorter, a bit thicker; andrei’s are calloused from life as a soldier, littered with tiny white scars from where he had nicked himself with a blade while carving or building or sharpening his saber.  

pierre takes one of andrei’s hands in his own, sometimes, when they sit together after dinner, and smoothes his thumb over the knuckles and back, feeling the veins and tendons beneath fragile skin. andrei’s fingers twitch in his grip; pierre looks up, but the prince himself is seemingly immersed in his book.

he ducks his head, presses a kiss to andrei’s knuckles, one hand cradled in both of his own, and revels in the soft, low hum that andrei gives in return.


	16. andrei/pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For writing prompts maybe something that has to do with Andrierre and Smiles? Andrierre and Kisses maybe??

andrei’s smiles were always small, understated, as if he were afraid that he he showed joy that it would be snatched away from him. pierre tries to make up for it, in grins given liberally, smiles flashed over the dinner table, laughter that bubbles in the pit of his stomach and out of his mouth. 

on the nights that pierre stays at the estate- under the ruse of it simply being too late to travel, knowing servants making a room ready for him that will not be used- he smoothes his thumb over the lines in andrei’s forehead. in the dark andrei sighs, turns slightly to press a kiss against pierre’s wrist.


	17. andrei/pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not usually an Andrierretasha stan but I think you write them so beautifully so I wanted to send a writing prompt for whenever you're down for it: Andrei and Pierre comforting Natasha after the death of her mother

natasha sits with her mother as countess natalya rostova takes her last breaths. 

neither andrei nor pierre are with her. she had insisted on going alone to the rostov estate while they sat at home, worry eating at them both. so natasha sits on her own, stone-faced, holding her mother’s hand.

there was nothing poetic about death, about watching an old woman take a few short, rattling gasps before falling still, eyes glassy and lifeless, grip going slack. natasha stands, closes the countess’s eyes, kisses her knuckles, and leaves the room. 

her cheeks are dry.

she says her goodbyes to nikolai (he was wrecked, face blotchy and damp, and he holds her too tightly before she leaves and sobs into her shoulder and she can do little more than hold him close) takes the carriage home, stares listlessly out at the passing houses. she feels detached from it all, as if she were not herself but rather someone else. that she had just watched someone else’s mother die, that she was going home to someone else’s lovers.

she does not cry until pierre sweeps her up in his arms, his own eyes bright with tears. she presses her forehead to his shoulder, curls her fingers into his waistcoat; he trembles beneath her hands with restrained sobs, and that is what pushes her over the edge.

her knees buckle and pierre holds her up, her initial cry muffled into his shoulder until it breaks off into heartbreaking, shoulder-wrenching, breathless sobs of her own. she can feel andrei’s hand settle on the back of her neck, big and warm and calloused, and pierre’s arms tighten around her, and together the three of them sink down to the floor.


	18. andrei/pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pierre coming out to andrei and/or natasha?

it had been something unspoken between himself and andrei, something that just  _was._ the first time he had undressed for him, shaking hands and flushed face, downturned eyes. andrei had paused at the sight of linen panels, had reached out as if to touch, but had instead drawn him into another kiss, sweet and tender.

it is different with natasha- he  _wants_ it to be different. he has more to lose now; before it had just been his tentative friendship with andrei, a friend who would write to him while he was abroad. now, though? now, he stood to lose the two people he loved most in the world; there was little doubt that if natasha chose to leave, andrei would follow. 

it was just the two of them, tonight, and they had taken dinner together in his study as they usually did when andrei was away, and natasha had noticed his uneasiness- because of course she did, lovely woman- and she had asked him what was wrong with those big, wondering eyes, and pierre found that he could not speak.

so now he paced in front of the fire, wringing his hands nervously. he did not know her as he knew andrei- that is to say, intimately, as a husband would know his wife- and she had little idea of the lie that he was holding inside himself. 

it had never been this hard with the women he had lain with at anatole’s parties. why were things so much more difficult with those you loved?

“tasha,” he says, looking up when she slips into the room, and there must have been something in his expression, for she immediately lapsed into concern and hurries toward him. he shies away, however, and immediately feels guilty at the hurt writ across her face.

“pierre-”

“don’t,” he says, perhaps to sharply, and then exhales in a heavy, gusty sigh. “i’m sorry, my dear, that was… that was unfair of me. but i can’t- i can’t- just. not right now.”

“pierre,” she tries again, and there’s something in her voice, something vulnerable that cuts him to the core.  _dearest natasha._ “what’s wrong?”

how does he begin to explain? how does he tell her that one of the men she loved so dearly was no man at all, but rather a fool playing pretend? but it was important that she knew, important that he trusted her with this, even if she hated him for it. even if she found herself too disgusted to look at him.

pierre takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and begins, “when i was born, my mother named me petra kirillovna.”


	19. dolokhov/pierre, NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fyotr: Fedya going wild with Pierre's praise kink

fyodor is much more used to harsher words, harsher actions- the taste of blood in his in his mouth. but pierre requires a gentler hand, he knows, wining and dining, sweet nothings. he had wondered, once why pierre had always been so popular with the whores- he wasn’t all that attractive, fat as he was, and he was awkward and uncomfortable, and penniless- but he thinks he knows now.

pierre gave so much, and expected so little in return.

he is on his knees, fully dressed (sans jacket and cravat, though those are of little consequence) and looking up at fedya, his pupils wide and dark, glassy with unshed tears. his glasses are perched low on his nose; a bit of come is smeared from the corner of his mouth across his cheek, and fedya rubs it away with his thumb.

“lovely,” he says, almost to himself, smoky voice rough and languid. pierre blushes, cheeks flushing a blotchy red, and dolokhov pauses- then tangles his fingers in pierre’s hair and pulls.

a startled yelp spills from pierre’s mouth, and fedya tugs once more just for good measure, receiving bared teeth in return. “you’re a treasure, petrushka,” he says, this time with purpose, and takes pierre’s face between his hands. he press his thumb against the other man’s mouth and pierre takes it between his lips eagerly, the barest scrape of teeth. 

pierre’s eyes flutter shut, long lashes kissing reddened cheeks, and he gives a soft, muffled moan when fedya tells him how wonderful he his with his mouth, how lovely he looks on his knees.

yes, fyodor thinks as he watches pierre nuzzle his palm almost tenderly, pierre had never responded well to insults and vulgarities; he was much too kind for that, too…  _virtuous._ but every man had their vices, their weaknesses, and he shouldn’t have been surprised to find that the bumbling count bezukhov’s was being  _complimented._


	20. andrei/pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so anyway my real prompt (not my silly foolish joke prompt): Pierre actually gets to see Andrei just before he dies.

natasha leads him into the bedroom by the hand, and he is terrified.

oh, pierre has been frightened before, of course- when he was first sent abroad as a child; the few times he had returned to russia over the years and faced his father’s knowing, wordless looks; being ushered into the old count’s sickroom, holding his hand and listening to his labored breaths, feeling the weight of the world pressing in on him- but never before had he been so filled with such bone-deep dread for what he was about to face.

he takes a moment to remember andrei as he had known him, flush with life, a vague smile on his face, eyes dark and warm. natasha squeezes his hand, her face- though blotchy with tears- twisted in an expression of pity.

“come on,” she says softly, though not unkindly. “he’s been asking after you since he woke up, you know.”

the room is as cramped and rustic as the rest of the house, all wood-panelled walls and rough-hewn furniture. there’s an empty chair beside the bed, and pierre walks over to it numbly; he hears the door close, but no retreating footsteps.

he looks to the bed and andrei is watching him, silent, still. there’s a softness to his face, something blurry and indistinct, and pierre has never seen it there before. he takes andrei’s hand in his own for lack of direction (and it’s so pale, almost bony, just like the rest of him, weak and too-thin and nothing like the andrei that pierre had loved for years beyond counting) and opens his mouth to speak, but the words stick clumsily to the back of his throat.

“you’re here,” andrei says to him, and  _oh,_ his voice is so tender that pierre wants to weep. as it is, he sniffs, rubs at his eyes beneath his spectacles.”you- you  _came.”_

“of course i came,” pierre says, almost offended, and if his voice cracks halfway through, well- neither of them will tell. “i came as quickly as i could, i- i had planned on staying in the city, but i’m more needed here. i’m not much of a nurse, you know, but i’ll do what i can to see you well again-”

the words all but trip off his tongue, stumbling to an abrupt halt in the face of the beatific smile that steals its way across andrei’s face. it’s the happiest pierre has ever seen him, seraphic in his simple joy, and pierre can feel the hot, fat tears prick at his eyes.

they both know that andrei will never be well again.

“you are my dearest friend,” andrei says, his voice low and soft, painfully affectionate. his fingers give a little squeeze and pierre brings his hand to his mouth, presses a kiss to his knuckles, lingering. “i loved you, you know. i  _love_ you. it’s so easy to say that, now. i don’t know why i never did before.”

“i- i know, i-” and pierre cuts himself off, swallowing thickly, swallowing back a sob. “i love you too, so much, so much,  _andrei,_ you don’t even know-”

and andrei laughs, a sad little sound, as pierre kisses his knuckles again. “i’d rather like to think that i do, dear pierre.”


	21. andrei/pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: funeral (it's the thing that seems most fitting rn)

pierre doesn’t remember the funeral. he doesn’t want to. he had seen enough of andrei’s face, still and gaunt in death, skin cold as he had bent to kiss him, first on the forehead and then the cross clutched in his hand.

thirty-four years old. he was so  _young._

pierre took his carriage home, alone and in silence, and spent a ridiculous amount of time standing in the foyer, just staring into the dark stillness. helene was in petersburg, away from the war, no doubt indulging herself in whatever pleasures she could get her hands on; after all these years, after all these heartbreaks, he couldn’t even find it in him to resent her.

he could only think of andrei and the last time they had spoken the night before the battle, the hurt written raw across his face, and how pierre had wanted so desperately to take him into his arms. 

how he hadn’t done so.


	22. andrei/pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ik you're not asking for prompts right now but when you can could you do andrei & pierre's first kiss

it is brief and chaste, barely more than a brush of lips, and easily the most daring thing pierre has ever done in his life.

he’s not sure why he’s so nervous- they have kissed many times before in friendship- but he supposes that it has something to do with the fact that andrei is several years older, and engaged, and that pierre is feeling just a bit more than friendship at the moment.

he is shaking when he opens his eyes, vision blurry and undefined without his glasses (which were carefully folded and placed on a nearby table, atop a stack of books). but andrei is still there, still close, and his expression is not angry- rather, he has an almost pensive look on his face, brows furrowed just the tiniest bit, looking at pierre as if he had never quite seen him before. pierre is, quite plainly, terrified.

“hello,” andrei says finally, quietly, sounding just as awkward and out of place as pierre feels. there’s the barest pause and then they are both laughing, breathless with relief, leaning forward until their foreheads touch and noses bump clumsily.

“hello,” pierre replies, priding himself on his steady voice.

andrei’s fingers trail lightly over his cheek (pierre leans into the contact, eyes fluttering shut), along his jaw. his hand settles as a warm, reassuring weight on the back of his neck, and pierre gives a gusty sigh that elicits a tiny huff of amusement, just before andrei pulls him in for another kiss.


	23. andrei/pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pierre getting comforted while he's dysphoric :o ?

some days are worse than others. he tries to seclude himself; he can’t muster the energy to leave the bed. he wants to crawl out of his own skin and he can’t bear the sight of himself in the looking glass. 

_petra, petra, petra,_ **pyotr.**

he is wrapped in sheets and he knows, distantly, that he is hiding, though he’s not sure from what. the mattress dips down to one side and he tries to hide his flinch, even though whoever has come wouldn’t see it beneath the blankets. he curls his shoulders closer, pulls the blankets up over his head, pulls his knees closer to his chest.

“it’s nearly evening,” says andrei’s voice, low and pleasantly rough. there’s a pause, a moment of awkward hesitation, before a hand comes to rest tentatively on his ankle. “bad day?”

pierre holds his breath until his headspins, then makes a noise of agreement, muffled by the sheets.

andrei sighs and gives his ankle a tiny, reassuring squeeze. it’s a contact he can bear, right now, something he can handle without feeling like he wants to tear out his hair. “i’ve been in the study. natasha is out visiting her mother,” andrei continues. pierre admires how he can keep his voice so calm measured; he thinks briefly of borodino,  _it was her soul i loved,_  how even as his face was contorted with a bitter misery, his words reflected none of it. “she’ll be home for dinner, though. you needn’t take it in the dining room, if you don’t feel like it; we can bring you your dinner, or the three of us can dine here together.”

that was something pierre loved about him, he thought- his practicality. andrei seemed near incapable of conventional comfort, at times, but this- a careful display of his options, no pressure to choose- helped to order his awful thoughts, bring him some semblance of peace and control.

“i would like to eat here, i think,” pierre says finally, peeking out of the blankets that he had pulled over himself, “if that’s acceptable?”

the smile that andrei gives him, though small, is tender and affectionate and accompanied by another squeeze to the ankle. “of course, pierre.”


	24. andrei/pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> someone anyone describing the things they love about pierre take your pic of suitors

natasha smiles, warm and almost shy, an intimacy meant only for herself.  _he’s kind,_ she says,  _he understands me. he **listens** , when no one else will. _and then, quieter, an admission,  _i loved him from the very beginning, i think, from the first time i met him as a little girl._

andrei’s face is only seen in profile but there’s something tender in his expression, something that softens the harsh lines of his face.  _he is so overflowing with love that it’s hard not to love him back,_ he says finally, quietly.  _he loves you when you cannot love yourself. he’ll do whatever he can for others, open his home and his purse and his heart to them, even when he only gets hurt in the end._

smiling almost ruefully, pierre says,  _me? i’m nothing much._


	25. andrei/pierre/natasha, NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ugh i want to send you nsfw stuff but im no good at writing things like this...i do have strong feelings about natasha sitting on pierre's face though. him just worshipping her, wanting to make her feel amazing and getting so worked up just from making her feel good, enjoying every little sound that she makes. Andrei probably watches them and jerks off, kissing them both so so much when natasha finally comes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first thought: fucking absolutely  
> second thought: pierre eats pussy like its an olympic sport

andrei isn’t used to being the one watching- that’s usually pierre, it works for all of them- he’s used to being  _watched,_ to putting on a bit of a show. it’s strange, then, to be an observer in such a situation, but it’s not an unpleasant change. the noises that natasha makes- soft little sighs and quiet, throaty moans- her fingers curled tight in pierre’s hair. pierre’s own breaths, heavy and labored, the way his hands clutch at natasha’s thighs.

they’re beautiful, he thinks, the both of them, and when natasha leans her head back, spine arching, her expression approaching rapturous, he crossed the few steps between the bed and the hearth and kisses her, hard. she laughs against his mouth, pulling away to tumble down over the bedcovers; pierre drags a hand down his face looking equal parts dazed and embarrassed, and andrei kisses him, too, biting down hard enough on his lip that he moans.


	26. andrei/pierre/natasha, NSFW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pierre getting pampered: natasha pegging him while andrei kisses his lips and down his neck; andrei and natasha taking turns eating him out; the two of them mumbling praises under their breath as natasha fingers him, their lips ghosting over the skin of his stomach and throat, pierre breaking down all the while simply because of how much time they've spent on him, how much attention he's been granted

it’s a lot for him to deal with; pierre, by nature of his personality, gives himself to others. he’s not used to being taken care of, not used to being treated like he’s something desirable. always,  _always,_ he’d been the one to make some sort of sacrifice.

but not here. not  _now._

andrei is warm against his back, calloused hands smoothing across his collarbone, down his chest and stomach. natasha glances up from between his shaking thighs, her eyes dark beneath long lashes; it takes a herculean effort not to tangle his fingers in her hair.

pierre gives a reedy sort of whine, his head lolling back against andrei’s shoulder, and he can hear andrei’s breath catch just the tiniest bit, feel the way that natasha moans low in her throat, and  _god,_ just the thought that they could even want him so much, either of them, is nearly intoxicating in and of itself.


	27. denisov/nikolai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: literally anything involving nikolai and denisov

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one-sided on denisov's end

nikolai had never been one to do things by half measures. he threw himself into everything heart and soul, all passion and wide, dark eyes. vaska wanted him, wanted to  _be_ him. there was just something about him, something that burned bright and hot, something that drew others close like a moth to flame.

nikolai says, “come home with me.”

vaska fumbles, nearly spilling ink across the cramped writing desk. nikolai is watching him intently, brow slightly furrowed, his handsome face set into an expression of determination.

“p-pardon?”

“come home with me,” nikolai repeats, in the same tone as before. “you’re going to be on your way to voronezh, yes? come stay a few days at the family estate in moscow. my father loves any excuse to entertain guests, and you’re a good friend to me, dear denisov.”

he can’t help but pause for a second, fighting back the wave of bitter disappointment that rises in him. nikolai was his friend; he wouldn’t burden him with his… strange desires. he had hoped for something else- but no, of course not, nikolai had his gaze set elsewhere.

(he spoke often of his love left behind, of her sweet face and tender smiles and warm eyes, of the color of her hair in the sunlight, of how her laughter sounded like bells, and vaska all but  _ached_ whenever nikolai adopted that sad, wistful look at the thought of her.)

“of course,” vaska says decisively, blotting his pen, and he can see nikolai’s shoulders sag out of the corner of his eye with something like relief. “if even half of your family is as lovely as you, my dear, i’m sure it will be a delight.”

and nikolai laughs, claps him on the shoulder and says something like  _flatterer._


	28. denisov/nikolai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you got anything for denisov/nikolai one-sided on nikolai's part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> basically the same scene as last chapter, but swapped

“come home with me,” nikolai blurts out.

vaska pauses, his pen hovering almost uncertainly over the paper, and nikolai’s heart leaps into his throat. it would have been easier to deal with, he supposed, had he known that vaska preferred only women; unfortunately, illegal though it was, vaska had never kept it secret among his intimates that the kept the company of men. 

“my family has an estate in moscow,” nikolai blunders on, focused intently on some point over vaska’s shoulder. he could feel the hot flush rising in his cheeks, reddening the tips of his ears; he can feel vaska’s eyes on him, dark and inquisitive. “that is to day- you’re going to voronezh, correct? moscow is on the way, and i’m sure that my parents would be glad to have you- my father always delights in hosting guests-”

“i would be honored,” vaska says, and he smiles his sweet-natured smile that made nikolai tingle from head to toe. he feels lightheaded, as if he might float away. “if they are even a fraction as delightful as you, dear rostov, i’m sure i will enjoy myself quite thoroughly.”

 _delightful, dear rostov._ nikolai felt as if the air had been sucked from the room but he offers a smile of his own, lopsided and nervous, the barest hint of teeth. vaska’s expression seems to warm at the sight of it, and nikolai turns sharply on his heel and all but trots from to room, knees shaking.


	29. dolokhov/pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: pierres debauchery pre-w&p while crashing at the kuragins (bonus points if it's nsfw)

things are always a little fuzzy after a few drinks, a little too warm. he studiously ignores the arm- a man’s arm, dusted with dark hair- curled around his waist as he slips out of the bed. he’s mostly clothed, which is a relief; his waistcoat is gone, along with his socks and shoes, and his trousers are halfway undone, but all can be easily remedied.

the person in the bed snuffles, groans; pierre freezes and doesn’t look back, even as he buttons up his trousers. his spectacles are on the bedside table- neatly folded, a strange and surprising fact- and he slips them on, swallowing back the nausea that rushes forward as he stands. 

he reeks of alcohol, he’s sure, and faintly of sweat. his mouth is dry and awful-tasting, and of course, it was just his luck that the water pitcher was empty. regardless, the sun is peeking through the curtains, the watery light of early dawn spilling across the floor. he catches a glimpse of a dark green jacket of an officer draped over the footboard of the bed, and pierre winces, tries not to think about it too much. 

pierre resolves to send a servant to call for his carriage; he can liberate anatole of socks and a pair of shoes, and his waistcoat was no great loss. his greatcoat is still downstairs, no doubt in the coatroom where the footman had deposited it last night. good, good- an escape plan. and then-

“petrushka?”

the voice is rough and sleep-worn, still slightly slurred, but unmistakeable, and pierre freezes. he can’t  _stop_ himself from looking, now, and slowly, slowly turns back to the bed, feeling rather like a trapped hare, heart beating fast. dolokhov- fyodor,  _fedya-_ is sitting up in bed, his hair mussed, pillow creases pressed into his cheek. there are bites and bruises across his collarbone and down his bare chest, and pierre is relatively sure that the rest of him is just as bare beneath the blankets- just the thought brings forth a hot flush of embarrassment.

dolokhov drags his dark eyes over pierre from head to toe, looking more and more smug the more he awakens, leaning back against the pillows and spreading his arms wide as if in invitation. he tilts his head back against the headboard, tantalizingly, and pierre swallows thickly.

“leaving so soon, are we? you’re fit to break my heart, running off so fast.”


	30. andrei/pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> andrierretasha isn't rly my ship but i know u lov so like,,,,,,say they go on a picnic......

it was all natasha’s idea, of course, a few hours out among the wildflowers and sunshine. and the two of them, so wrapped around her finger, were powerless to object. 

not that they  _would_ have, pierre thinks, lounging on the blanket that they had spread out on the ground. natasha, in her excitement, had harried a servant to put together a basket of food for them, breads and cheeses and cold meats, and they had picked through them slowly.

distantly, he can hear natasha screech, her voice shrill with laughter. she had taken off through the flowers earlier, skirts bunched up in her hands like a young girl, and after a moment of hesitation andrei had sprang up and chased after her. pierre lays there, eyes turned to the blue, blue sky, the sunlight warm on his face, and he thinks-

_i’ll never be this happy again._


	31. pierre & helene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> awkward anon that loves you and sent shitty prompts last time here. how about uh transpierre coming out to helene who obvs accepts him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not necessarily acceptance but helene would have a lot to lose if pierre were exposed

it is, perhaps, not the best time for this, but he doesn’t think about that until after.

“there’s- there is something i must tell you, helene.”

it’s the first night of festivities, after the ceremony, and the two of them stand facing each other awkwardly, still wrapped in their finery. helene looked stunning, her dark curls piled into an elegant style, her cheeks and lips colored with rouge. when she turns to look at him, her eyes are wide and bright, and he feels his breath catch when faced with her loveliness.

“yes,  _husband?”_ she says the word  _husband_ with a coyness that is means to entice him, and oh, it does, it  _does._ he swallows back the desire that rises in him, though the blush that floods his face remains.

“i am not a man.” it tumbles out of his mouth too quickly, too jumbled, and pierre winces, glancing away. he can’t look at her, not right now, not in this moment. he didn’t have to words to properly articulate it, what he was, how he lived with himself every day. “that is, not in the way most would think. the mind is, the  _soul_ is, but the body… is not.”

he looks back at her then, his hands clasped tightly in front of him, chest tight. the sultriness drains from helene’s expression, replaced by a flicker of confusion- the barest furrow of her brow, the corners of her lips turning down- until it settles into something coldly blank. something uncomprehending.

“you are not a man,” she parrots, slowly. it’s not a question. “then what are you?”

pierre takes a deep, fortifying breath and tries to resist covering his fact. “i  _am_ a man,” he asserts, though it sounds weak even to his own ears. “though, as a child… the name my mother gave my was petra. petra  _kirillovna.”_

helene stares at him for a moment more, her expression still unnervingly blank, before abruptly turning away. she swans over to the vanity- now hers- and primps herself in the mirror, pinching her cheeks and brushing a stray curl from her face, fingertips ghosting along the line of her jaw. though only a few moments, it feels as if her silence stretches on for hours.

“so, the marriage cannot be consummated?” and, oh, she sounds so casual asking that, while pierre’s insides turn to ice. she doesn’t even look at him. “we cannot lay together as husband and wife should?”

mutely, he shakes his head. the shame burns through him, bright and hot, even as cold fear slithers its way down his spine. she would tell, expose him to everyone, and he would lose  _everything_ , be shipped off to some convent or asylum or another.

 _imposter,_  a voice whispered in his ear.  _imposter._

she glances at him in the mirror and something in her expression softens, but she doesn’t turn to him again. instead, she says, “be a dear and unlace me, will you?”

he does so with shaking hands, and it takes longer than it should, but helene doesn’t comment on it and pierre can’t bring himself to complain. she shrugs once all the lacing is undone and the heavy gown slips to the floor, leaving her in her corset and shift, and pierre blushes.

“will you… will you tell anyone? request an annulment?”

helene glances over her shoulder at him, something canny and calculating flashing over her face. “why should i, dear pierre?”

_what would i gain?_

even so he is flooded with relief, all but sagging with it. he was safe, at least for now.. he was  _safe_


	32. pierre-centric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #pierre is trans!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! pierre is always trans #helene knows obviously- marriages must be consummated to be considered valid after all #but she needs pierre's money and status too much to get rid of him imo #so they have this sort of mutually beneficial thing going on; helene gets to spend his money and enjoy her status as his wife #and in return he gets the social security that being married brings

there was a full-length mirror in his bedroom.

it had been a gift to his father some years before his death from some connection or another, the glass carefully cut and polished. it was an expensive trinket, too expensive for him to simply throw out like he had originally wanted- the steward had nearly fainted at the suggestion, eyes wide as dinner plates- so he had simply thrown a sheet over it and left it at that.

he avoided most mirrors in the house- seeing his own face made it hard to breathe- but there was a special reticence reserved for this one, a shadow lurking in the dark. he stands before it now, the sheet pooled on the ground, his fingernails digging into the bare, lightly-freckled skin of his own shoulders.

pierre squints at himself in the mirror, feeling strangely disconnected from the reflection of his own body. he was too round, everywhere: his face, his shoulders, his chest, his stomach, his legs. not sharp angles or flat planes, no jutting hipbones. he was- soft, in a way that men shouldn’t be.  

his eyes were too big for his face, perpetually wide, framed by too-long lashes. his jaw was rounder than it should have been, and hairless. he had never been called pretty when those around him perceived him as a young girl, but now- looking at himself, alone and over critical- he wonders how anyone could have fooled themselves into thinking that he was a man. 

it was a lie- he was a fraud, a living, breathing deception- and yet… and yet. the thought of someone  _knowing_ freezes something inside him, ice settling into the hollow pit of his stomach. he couldn’t stand anyone knowing, anyone coming to see him as something other than they already did.

let them laugh at him behind his back, poke at his appearance and his speech. let them call him fat, and simple, and a drunk. let them turn up their noses at him, but don’t let them  _know._


	33. pierre & marya dmitriyevna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for conversation about natasha's suicide attempt

marya says  _arsenic_ and his mind goes blank.

_what?_

arsenic. marya’s face is pale and drawn, lines cutting crevices into her skin. she looks older than her fifty years, and so very small, very tired. a dead husband, and her sons gone off to war- pierre knew that with her own daughter grown she had poured all of herself into these girls, and it was obvious that she had taken all of this as a personal failure.

“arsenic?” is all he croaks, instead of some sort of comfort that should have come babbling from his mouth.

marya closes her eyes, sighs heavily, shoulders sagging; pierre wrings his hands. she sinks into her chair and places a hand over her mouth. pierre had never considered that she too was as mortal as the rest of them; marya dmitrievna had always seemed larger than life,  _le terrible dragon._

“arsenic,” she replies, her strong voice now sounding little more than a hoarse whisper. “she poisoned herself and woke sofia. it was by god’s grace alone that the doctors came as quickly as they did- it wouldn’t have done to make the poor thing suffer.”

 _stupid girl._ arsenic poisoning was no quick death. she would have lingered in pain for days.

pierre pauses, swallows thickly past the lump in his throat. says, “i think i should like to see her, if that- is at all acceptable.”

and marya looks at him straight in the eyes, for once without the acerbic wit she had used every time before, but instead something like gentle hope. “i think she should like to see you as well, count bezukhov.”


	34. andrei/pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> do you have any angst for andrierretasha from andrei's pov

andrei looks over the two of them in bed- curled together, blissful in sleep- and thinks:  _they are too good for me._

he loves them in all the ways that he is able, but it never quite feels like  _enough._ natasha has never been reserved in her affections, has always thrown herself headlong into it and never held any of herself back, and pierre- for all of his fretting and fears- is all but overflowing in love for the both of them. 

and andrei, well- andrei was distant. his father was cold and harsh even before age began taking his mind, and his mother had died young. and for as wonderful as marya was- she did not know how to love, either.


	35. andrei/pierre/natasha

often times natasha feels left out, between andrei and pierre. the two of them had been close long before she had come around- there had never been any great falling out between them. there were no topics to be danced delicately around, though both were prone to bouts of melancholy, they knew how to read the other better than anyone else.

it was hard to feel as if she were  _not_  on the outside of such a relationship.

she feels it when she wakes in the morning to find the two of them reading; she feels it during the day, when andrei disappears to his garden and pierre follows at his heels; she feels it in the evenings, when they argue good-naturedly after dinner of some book or another.

pierre jerks away from andrei’s hand as she enters the room, as if they were doing something secret and coveted.

 _look at prince bolkonsky and his lovely wife,_  the crowds titter behind their hands, smiles masked by fans, bright eyes.  _what a wonderful match! such beautiful creatures!_

but they don’t notice the way that andrei hardly even glances at her, smiles at her only when they glide across the floor in a waltz, occupies himself with pierre’s soft-spoken remarks.

they didn’t notice how he wasn’t really hers at all.


	36. andrei/pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> andrierretasha; how they spend a stormy/rainy day in.

andrei wakes up first, sliding out of bed with a sheet wrapped around his shoulders. he sits by the window and watches the rain, the sky too dark for dawn, and he sighs and presses his forehead to the cool glass. eventually he goes to fetch a cup of tea, still draped in a sheet over his nightclothes, and when he returns both natasha and pierre are still asleep amongst the blankets.

pierre wakes up next and he stays still, for a moment, wrapped around natasha, listening to her breaths and the steady patter of the rain and the thunder outside. he sits up, slowly, blankets bunched around his waist and hip still pressed against natasha’s back, and watches andrei at the window. he offers a smile when glanced at, still soft with sleep, and andrei’s answering smile is something tender enough to make his chest ache. 

the bed is still warm when natasha blinks open her eyes, a body-  _dear pierre,_  she thinks, yawning- nestled against her back. she stretches and she hears a laugh, quiet beneath the rain against the windows, and rolls over to bury her face in the pillows. a hand smoothes down her side, big and warm, and when she glances up there is a flash of lightning that illuminates the room. she can see pierre smiling down at her, pillow creases on his cheek thrown into sharp relief, and she catches a glance of andrei beside the big window, his body turned to face them, his expression warm and soft.


	37. andrei/pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> andrierretasha at balls/soirées/etc.?

pierre had never been quite a fan of parties. always, he found himself lurking on the edges, alone; helene swanning off to hang off another man’s elbow, or watching andrei and natasha twirl around the dance floor, wrapped in each other’s arms.

even now, it ached- to not be able to join them. to have to  _hide._ he loved them and they loved him but not in public, never in public; their love was for behind closed doors, fingers tangled and warm smiles for when no one else was watching. 

and so he stands against the wall, third glass of champagne held loosely in his fingers. natasha and andrei are dancing- natasha had always loved dancing- and there is laughter on her face, brilliant and joyous, and andrei is smiling and pierre feels as if he is drowning, alone.


	38. andrei/pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: A devastating disease sweeps through the Moscow, and Pierre becomes prey to it. The doctors don't portend a good outcome, but Natasha has hope and while Andrey has none at all, he'll hardly leave his friend's side.

he was neither stupid nor blind. even now, half-delirious as he sometimes is, he remembers: a dark airless room, surrounded by unwashed bodies and suffering men. his head aches, his whole  _body_ aches, and he feels simultaneously too hot and too cold, sweating through the light sheet pulled halfway up his chest. 

natasha cradles one of his hands in both of her own, delicate fingers tracing over his knuckles. her face is pale, eyes bloodshot, but she musters up a smile for him when she sees him looking. andrei is in the hallway with the doctor, but the bedroom door is open, and he can hear them speaking.

“the count’s symptoms are consistent with gaol fever,” the doctor says, hushed, voice even and steady. “there’s no ready cure. put willow bark in his wine for the pain, or laudanum if none is available. now, i really must-”

“gaol fever?” andrei’s voice cuts in, sharp and cold. a smile twitches at the corner of pierre’s mouth, hazy, and he can hear natasha’s soft sigh. “the french left  _years_ ago and he recovered then, there’s no reason for him to have  _gaol fever.”  
_

“your highness,” the doctor says more tersely than before, “i can only tell you what i see, not  _why_ i am seeing it.”

andrei must have said something else, some sort of dismissal, because pierre hears retreating footsteps and then andrei is  _there,_ hovering next to natasha at his bedside. pierre manages a smile, just as shaky as the one natasha had given him moments earlier, but sincere nonetheless. 

“you’re a terror,” he accuses, and andrei huffs out a little breath, almost petulant. natasha laughs at that, bell-like, and pierre soaks in the sound; blessed is he to be surrounded by these people, those who love him and whom he loves most.

“gaol fever, pierre?” andrei asks, sounding harassed. “ _really?”_

natasha says, “and you call  _him_ the terror, petrushka.”


	39. andrei/pierre/natasha, & nikolushka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When natasha is giving birth to said child pierres not allowed in the room with andrei, nat, and the midwife and so he's sitting in a diff room thinking to himself that if he wasn't there it wouldnt make a difference to the other two and then he immediately feels guilty - like he's making their day all about him - and when Andrei finally comes out of the room to tell him how the baby is doing Pierre says he's crying cause of how happy he is for them but that's not the only reason he's in tears.

the baby comes and pierre starts feeling even more isolated- natasha and andrei are both wrapped up in the baby, accepting well-wishes and fawning over the new addition to their family, and pierre is left on the outside, unsure of his place in their lives

and then there’s little nikolai, who has never been particularly close to his father, whose only real parental figure is marya who has a family of her own now. he watches his father and his stepmother have a child of their own- a  _replacement-_ and though he is young the hurt is piercing and acute, and he and pierre turn to each other as outcasts on the outside looking in

* * *

 

andrei wouldn’t be allowed in the birthing room either- men typically weren’t, unless something went wrong and they were a doctor- but andrei is busy pacing, pacing, pacing (this was how lise died and he wasn’t there to hold her, to offer her comfort, and natasha is screaming just as she had and his heart is beating so fast in his chest) and he doesn’t notice as pierre slips away, face pale and distraught, mouth drawn into a hard, quivering line  
  
hours later andrei tracks pierre down in the drawing room sitting before the banked fire, hands in his hair and elbows on his knees, eyes squeezed shut in the dark. his spectacles sit on the low table nearby, alongside discarded books. when pierre looks up andrei’s expression is radiant in his joy, simultaneously ecstatic and serene, looking happier than pierre has ever seen him.

“i’m a father, pierre,” andrei whispers, reverent.

and pierre says, “you were already a father.”

 


	40. andrei/pierre/natasha, & nikolushka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #hey mal have you ever considered this: letting me fucking live #nikolai himself starts making a beeline straight for pierre rather than andrei– always just a little too distant and a little too cold #nikolai feels like the leftover son from a woman andrei never cared for (and perhaps in turn he assumes andrei doesnt care for him) #pierre and nikolai are both given distance with the new child and it hurts them both; #nikolai could never be the child that andrei wanted and pierre could never be the lover andrei wanted #(or pierre thinks of course; he still joins them but perhaps he makes excuses to stay in his study late at night for fear of facing them #but it makes it easier for him to just avoid) #anyways mal what the FUCK

andrei notices the way that nikolai holds himself apart- of course he notices, they may not be close but nikolai is his  _son,_ and a young child besides, and not adept at hiding his feelings well- and he notices how so many of pierre’s smiles (ones that he used to shower on  _them,_ on andrei and natasha, smiles that andrei had coveted and secreted away for himself) are now saved for nikolai

and a part of him is jealous, yes. pierre is being a better father to his son than he could ever hope to be, nikolai was all that was left in the world of lise- of a woman that pierre scarcely knew, that  _andrei_ scarcely knew- and pierre had no claim to her son. and it  _hurt,_ to be seemingly rejected by his child and the man that he loved, but they made each other happy in a way that andrei could no longer achieve for pierre and had never achieved for nikolai in the first place.

natasha notices too, but there’s less of the sadness in her gaze, and none of the jealousy. she lays her hand gently on andrei’s arm and he tears his eyes away from the pair of them seated across the room, nikolai’s dark head resting against pierre’s shoulder as they read together. the baby is cradled against her chest, sleeping, and he can’t help the way his expression softens when he looks at her, a smile curling the corners of her mouth.

“he’s good with him,” she murmurs, glancing back over at the two in question. “i don’t think nikolai’s ever liked me much, you know, and pierre looks at me now like i’m something he’s lost.”

“he’s just-” andrei says, then stops. he wasn’t sure what he was going to say,  _who_ he was going to say it about. because he couldn’t disagree, could he? nikolai had always fallen by the wayside in his and natasha’s relationship, and of late pierre had been little more than a stranger in their house.

natasha smiles, something small and sad and pitying, and grazes her fingertips across his cheek in a loving caress. “they’re good for each other, andryushenka. let them have their happiness.”


	41. andrei/pierre, pierre/natasha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soulmate au

the first time he meets andrei he is fifteen years old lurking at the edge of the ballroom, moving through the throng of guests like a ghost. no one wants to acknowledge him-  _the old count’s favorite bastard_ \- and pierre feels out of place, uncomfortable in his own skin. 

but looking into andrei’s eyes- the shiver of feeling that went through him was grounding, like coming home, and there’s the slow spread of a smile that flickers across andrei’s face that pierre can’t help mirroring. 

“my betrothed, lise,” andrei starts some time later, and pierre’s stomach sinks but he is still smiling, face aching with the effort. and then- he leaves. goes to france for school, stays there for some years. he and andrei exchange letters, tender words scrawled across paper that he keeps tucked close to his heart. the handwriting in the letters matches that of the words scrawled with care on the inside of his left wrist. 

when he returns to st petersburg it is not for andrei, but rather for his dying father. he is sent to live with prince vasily kuragin and the man looks down his nose at pierre, mouth drawn into an unattractive sneer. pierre is once more delegated to be a specter, wide eyes following princess helene as she swans through the house, elegant and beautiful and  _perfect._ she had never spoken a word to him, but a part of him hoped beyond all hope that it was her words on his skin, that she would look at him with her big, dark eyes and would say it-  _“someone said i should dance with you, and i agree.”_

* * *

 

she is thirteen when she first meets pyotr kirillovich bezukhov, and her father welcomes him like an old friend. she knows, distantly, that he was the old count’s natural son who had unexpectedly inherited his father’s estate, and while her mother had murmured distantly that he would be a good match, natasha had never paid much mind to gossip. 

he was a tall, fat man, with a round beardless face, and in any other situation she wouldn’t have given him a second glance; she would have tittered behind her hand about how silly and awkward he looked with sonya and then moved on. 

but he takes her hand in both of his own- he doesn’t bend to kiss her knuckles- and graces her with the sweetest smile she has ever seen, and every nerve in her body comes alive. she feels the breath leave her lungs- she feels as if she has known him all her life.

she says, “someone said i should dance with you, and i agree.”

he says, “you’ll have to lead.”

she does, and her delight is reflected in his face, brilliant with joy. he releases her hands at the end and does a spin, bumping into one of the other dancers, but natasha laughs at his ridiculousness and he gives her that boyish smile once more, warming her.

“oh, pierre,” she sighs dreamily, curling her fingers around his own and squeezing, “dear, dear pierre.”

some weeks later over tea, her mother says, “count bezukhov is engaged, didn’t you hear? and to the daughter of that intriguer, prince kuragin, to boot.”


	42. pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pierre realizing for the first time that hes in love with natasha hhffgh

he looks at her face, tear-stained and blotchy, and thinks:  _this is the most beautiful creature i have ever seen._ she shakes his his arms, wracked with gasping sobs, falling apart at the seams, and he is filled with love for her, overflowing.

later, there is anger and terror, marya dmitrievna’s expression drawn and pale as she tells him of natasha’s illness,  _arsenic_ falling from her lips and stopping his heart, stealing his breath. he feels as if he has just suffered a blow to the chest. kuragin-  _anatole-_ his fault, all his fault-

she is thin, waif-like and unsmiling. natasha has always been small- a skinny, slip of a girl- but she dominated rooms by force of personality alone, and now… now she was drawn into herself, quiet, arms wrapped around herself as is they were the only things keeping her from shattering apart.  _i love you,_ he wants to say, the words crowding his tongue and sticking to the back of his throat,  _i love you, you are so strong, i love you, you’ve endured so much, i love you._


	43. andrei/pierre/natasha

andrei bolkonsky and natalya rostova are married in the spring.

it is the same chapel that pierre himself was married in, however many years ago, and it is strange to be in this place surrounded by the same faces, changed and lined by time. there are tears rolling down marya’s face, her mouth pulled into a blinding smile; she looks lovely, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, and pierre thinks,  _it is good to see her so happy._

and then the bride and groom turn to face them, fingers intertwined, brilliant in their joy. natasha catches his eye first, her face bright and radiant, and her expression is so full of love that it nearly hurts; she nudges andrei, a hand on his arm, until he too is looking at pierre, and pierre is pinned by the weight of both their gazes. his vision tunnels and it as if the three of them are the only ones there, and he feels too warm, and he can feel an answering grin- breathless with joy, face flushed- splitting his cheeks.


	44. pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pierretasha modern au, natasha telling pierre she’s pregger

two little pink lines. her hands shake.

pierre is curled on the couch in the living room, and when she enters he looks up long enough from his book to flash her a sweet smile. and then double-takes, brow furrowing with concern over her pale face and shellshocked expression; he puts his book aside and reaches for her, and she goes wordlessly into his arms. 

“tasha, love,” he says softly, worriedly, running his hands lightly over her shoulders, her arms, as if to anchor her. or himself. “what’s wrong? what happened?”

and natasha takes a steadying breath, presses her forehead against his chest- he was so tall, why did he have to be  _so tall-_ as tears burn the backs of her eyes. she sniffles; the joy inside her was fit to choke her, warming her chest, bubbling up her throat, stealing her tongue. 

“i-” she starts, then stops, and pierre makes a soft, distressed little sound that coaxes a teary laugh from her lips. “i’m pregnant. i’m pregnant, petrushka. we’re having a baby!”


	45. andrei/pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Andrierre and flowers for prompts?

after the war, the bolkonsky household is transformed. 

the estate in moscow- once dreary and cold, painted in shades of grey and more tomb than home- is revitalized. windows thrown open, linens aired, walls painted and papered and the floors shined; the house comes alive again, becomes a  _home_ again. 

andrei spent his time in the garden, hours pruning and weeding and replanting, soldier’s hands coaxing tiny buds from shriveled and mostly-dead plants. pierre sits with him, book half-forgotten in his lap as he watches andrei work, luxuriating in the sunshine of late spring. his heart swells to see his friend’s contentedness; there is still pain, of course, still bleak and hopeless days, but here, now- he is smiling and utterly at peace, dirt beneath his nails and ground into the knees of his trousers, staining his hands grubby brown.

he sure he looks quite the fool when he smiles, too tender and affectionate, but andrei’s returning smile is soft and happy and his eyes are bright and so, so  _alive,_ so pierre supposes it’s an embarrassment that he’ll just have to live with.


	46. pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pierretasha prompt: how about after marriage, pierre is having The Depression and keeps saying natasha could’ve done better than him/could’ve married someone more attractive/etc. and she comforts him :o

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> h/c without the c

there is a gloom in him that is at odds with the bright afternoon sun flooding the study, painting it cheerful shades of gold and yellow; he presses the heels of his hands so he can’t see it, flashes of white and blue and purple dancing behind his eyelids. 

he knows, logically, that natasha loves him- that she is overflowing with love for him. but there is still a part of him- small and frozen and always whispering in his ear- that he allowed helene to put there, a part of him that always wonders if his only use is his money, a part of him that says his only worth is in how useful he is to others. 

pierre tries his best not to take his fears out on his wife. natasha is too good for him, too kind- she deserves someone like dear andrei had been, kind and handsome and wealthy, someone who would have been able to love her wholly without being consumed by dark thoughts. 

that is his biggest regret, he thinks. that he could not be the husband he so desperately wanted to be for natasha. 


	47. andrei/pierre, natasha/marya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if you could manage some andrierre and also some marynat that would be Wonderful

the first time he catches them- dear natasha and the princess marya- they are seated too-close on the sofa in the parlor, pressed forehead-to-forehead, and he feels a voyeur just for having caught that brief glance of intimacy. he holds his breath and slips quietly through the doorway, hoping that he wasn’t seen.

he brings it up to andrei later, the two of them curled before the fire on the floor of the prince’s bedroom, and andrei stares pensively into the flickering flames. pierre watches his face carefully, ever vigilant; he remembers andrei’s cold smile, the heartbroken look that would slip on to his face when he thought no one was looking. things had gotten better in recent months- he and natasha had mended their burned bridges, began writing again- but pierre knew that things would never be as they were before.

“i’m glad my sister has found happiness,” andrei says eventually, and though his tone is sincere, there’s a bit of sadness there, too. 

pierre presses his shoulder to andrei’s in silent comfort and they both turn to watch the fire in quiet, book still open in pierre’s lap. he thinks of happiness and heartbreak, of endings and beginnings, and of how sometimes you just can’t leave the people who hurt you.


	48. andrei/pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey can i get a bit of andrierre (just rlly pierre being willing to do anything for andrei like in that scene in bbc where andrei asks him to come meet his son)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dialogue lifted from "pierre & andrey"

“here are her letters,” andrei says, “would you return them to the countess?”

pierre stares helplessly at the proffered bundle of papers, tied neatly with a dark ribbon the color of burgundy. he aches, a fierce pulse of  _hurt_ flooding him with each heartbeat. a year ago, he had thought that nothing could have been worse than the exquisite pain he had felt at the sight of andrei’s bright, lovestruck smile, the way he spoke about natasha so tenderly- the hurt now is savage and reckless, leaving him feeling raw in the face of his friend’s heartbreak.

“natasha is very ill,” pierre replies roughly, taking the letters reluctantly and tucking them into his coat. his stomach sinks with the gravity of finality. “she has been at death’s door-”

andrei’s smile is cold and sharp, like broken glass, and pierre can feel it cutting into him, indiscriminately, a reflection of the other man’s broken heart. something seizes up in pierre at the sight of it, something that hates seeing his friend in such pain and something that longs for so much more, for the ability to hold him, to make things  _better._

days later, when pierre returns to natasha her letters and finds himself faced with her bitter tears, finds his heart breaking all over again, he remembers andrei’s razor-sharp smile and is unable to breathe.


	49. pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ik i sort of already asked you to write smth but shejekwkeo hmu w/ that pierretasha if you can, where it’s after he proposes to her and she says yes,,,

the first time he asks her, desperate and choked with tears-  _and if i were free-_ a half-wished for dream that would never be realized. she gives him a smile, soft and sad and almost-pitying, and he doesnt realize until later, sat in front of the fireplace with a glass in his hand, why he felt as if he couldn’t breathe.

the second time he asks her they are different people, older and more world-worn. andrei’s death had scraped them both raw- he had felt as if the earth had dropped from beneath his feet when he learned- and he cannot go into helene’s bedroom without seeing a spectre of her body, lifeless and swollen with child, draped in bloodstained sheets. 

he takes her hand in his-  _so small,_ soft palms against his own made rough from imprisonment- and then pauses, and he can hear her breath hitch, and when she looks at him she is all wide, glittering eyes, delicate lips parted in something like wonderment as if she knows the words that he finds himself stumbling over.

“natalya,” pierre says, haltingly, all of his half-remembered fears crowding in his throat, “ _natasha._ will you be my wife?”


	50. andrei/pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> can i get like something andrierre like the weekend or night before Andrei ships out ?

he remembers when andrei went away to war- the first time. he remembers his own jealousy, remembers the sharp, aching wound of separation that already sits between them. evenings after dinner were quiet, in the bolkonsky household, and pierre had often found himself tucked in an armchair before the fireplace after a meal, speaking to the princess of faith or to andrei over one of his books.

it is quiet now, too, the both of them perched upon the plush sofa as still as if they were hewn from stone. pierre has his hands curled to fists and pressed to his knees, watching the firelight flicker over his knuckles and listening to andrei’s quiet breathing. he doesn’t know what to say- words have failed him, for all his passion- and his heart sits in his throat, stomach somewhere in the vicinity of his feet. 

and then andrei sighs and shifts closer and,  _god,_ pierre can’t help but to let himself lean into him with a great, shuddering breath, cheek pillowed against andrei’s shoulder. he still feels like something is lodged in his chest- heavy and immovable- but lighter now than it was before.

it is another stolen moment that pierre tucks away for himself. 


	51. pierre & marya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pierre and marya b as friends !

they gravitate toward each other at soirees, at balls, at casual socials held in crowded parlors. quiet souls, the both of them; marya is sweet-natured and pierre is sincere, and they suit each other, talking quietly in a corner away from the crowd.

andrei approves, pierre knows. “thank you,” he says one evening, unprompted, and pierre is startled, looks up from his book with a question on his face. he elaborates, “for being such a true friend to my sister. she cares for you very much, dear pierre.”

and pierre feels warm, smiles at that with all that he is able, and andrei smiles back.

after andrei’s death marya comes to him in the midst of his grief, soft and lovely and saintly in her gentleness. she holds him close as sobs wrack his body- dry, painful, he had thought he had shed all the tears he could weeks ago- though he no doubt smells of alcohol and stale sweat, disheveled as he was.

“he loved you,” she tells him softly, combing her fingers through his hair as he leans against her, sullen and despondent. his breath hitches and his heart aches at the thought; there had been something between them, certainly, but it had always gone unspoken. “you were so dear to him, pierre. he spoke of you in all his letters, and you were the only one who could ever bring him such joy.”

“princess,” he manages, choked, reedy. her dress is wet with his tears but she doesn’t seem to mind, only holds him closer, presses a kiss to his crown. “ _marya—”_

she shushes him, cups his jaw and pulls him back to look him in the eye. he’s sure he looks wretched, but marya herself is lovely, her sweet face and large, luminous eyes framed by long, dark lashes, and she presses a kiss to his forehead and pierre feels fit to break into another bout of weeping.

“dearest pierre,” she says, sounding heartbreakingly earnest, “you are as much my brother as andrei is.”


	52. dolokhov/pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'd be down for some more Fyotr fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> continued from [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12055869/chapters/27301113)

he sends word for dolokhov over and over but dolokhov does not come, and pierre waits out the rest of his recovery in frustration. there was only so much one could do from a sickbed, after all, and he had a feeling that catiche wasn’t even posting his letters at all.

or, that they were being posted to the wrong place. that dolokhov no longer spent his time at the heels of kuragin, like a dog begging for scraps. that his letters were going straight to the flames, unopened.

he is preoccupied by other things once he is well again, thinner than before, weaker, but better every day, sorting through papers that had piled up in his absence, reports from his farms and estates and an accounting of his holdings, now that the french had burned and robbed and raped their way out of russia. he is trapped no longer by infirmity, but rather by the administrative headaches that come of being a man of some consequence.

but fedya is never far from his mind, strong arms around his failing, freezing body, the way that he had breathed  _petrushka_ into his dirty, unwashed hair like he was something tender and treasured.

it made pierre nervous to think about, what he would say to fedya if-  _when-_ he saw him again. there was history there, between them; they may have had something, once, when pierre was still young and naive and fresh-faced, with eyes full of stars. dolokhov had been different then, more cruel; war and softened him and dulled his sharp edges.

when they do meet again, it is an accident.

he is out for lunch at the bolkonsky household, sitting in the warm summer sun with marya and natasha and sonya and the countess. the women are chattering amongst themselves, bright, as they all wait on nikolai; marya attempts to draw him into the conversation several times, and natasha casts him sweet glances that make his chest ache, but pierre is quiet for once, preferring to bask in the sunlight on his skin.

when nikolai returns it is with two sets of footsteps, indistinct voices before he rounds the corner. pierre doesn’t look, immediately, but he can hear natasha make an offended noise, can hear the click of countess rostova’s needles as she pauses in her knitting.

pierre opens his eyes, looks over- and freezes.

“fedya,” he blurts, and natasha casts him a sharp look. sonya’s gaze is on her hands, folded neatly in her lap; marya bites her lip glances around with a worried expression. nikolai, for his credit, appears nonplussed; his expression is carefully neutral, though his eyes are keen, and fedya, well. fyodor appears to have frozen midstep, startled.

he recovers admirably, though, sketches a small bow, his gaze very, very dark, unreadable. “count.”

that’s all he says to pierre for the duration of the meal, though he chats earnestly with nikolai, trades barbed pleasantries with natasha that makes her mother jab her with her needles, though the old countess seems none too pleased to have their former houseguest there, either. but whenever pierre looks up from his hushed conversation with marya, the weight dolokhov’s eyes are on him, contemplative with something that pierre can’t quite pin.

dolokhov catches him in the parlor as he is about to leave and the two of them stand still for a moment, studying each other; pierre is too wary to break the silence, all the things he’d imagined himself saying turning to ash on his tongue.

finally, fedya says, “you’re looking well, petrushka.”

pierre says, “you saved me.”

a smile twitches dolokhov’s lip beneath his moustache and he moves forward to clap pierre’s shoulder, fingers squeezing slightly. pierre sighs a little, leans into the contact.

“don’t take it personally,” fedya says, his voice lilting with sharp humor, and he pulls pierre into an embrace.


	53. denisov/nikolai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nikolai x anyone you want (andrei)?

he had thought that he had loved sonya, truly, loved her soft smile and her bell-like laugh, her gentle hands and her selflessness. and he did, in a way- a part of him always would- though his feelings had faded from the infatuation colored by the first flush of youth to something more inherent, something that just  _was._

he loved sonya, yes, but he knew now that he didn’t want to marry her. that perhaps he never had, and it had taken leaving home for him to learn that.

instead he had taken the idea of war heroes that he’d been spoonfed as a child and his disappointment in the reality of the soldier and wrapped himself in it like a cloak, looking down his nose at the enlisted infantrymen. he had thought himself above those  _others_ because while he was a soldier he was not like  _them,_ ugly and brutish in their violence.

vaska was different. he  _was_ a hero, with his bright eyes and his charming smile, the sweet way that he spoke. 

they dance together, in the camp where there are no women, a group of men gathered around the fire. someone has a guitar, strums out a clumsy, stilting beat as their boots thud dully on the hard-packed earth. vaska’s dark, smiling eyes are bright in the firelight as he pulls nikolai into a spin, and nikolai wants so desperately then to kiss him.

someone cheers, a jeering sort of laughter, and nikolai jerks back into himself as vaska laughs, says something crass in response. he can feel his cheeks heat, the blush obvious on fair, freckled skin, and he hopes that its masked by the warm, flickering light of the fire.


	54. pierre-centric

he does not know how to love himself, not quite. he closes his eyes and he sees helene’s face, twisted with disgust; he still hears the way that people would laugh and whisper when he walked into a room.  _he looks so simple,_ they would murmur behind their hands if they were feeling kind, voices lilting with amusement,  _he’s so fat! how the old count would be ashamed to have that for a son._

 _he truly must have been senseless towards the end,_ one whispered,  _to name that one as his heir._

it’s better, now, out of the darkest of his nights. they animosity between he and helene has cooled, and he scarcely attends soirees anymore, save with natasha, when she manages to coerce andrei into attending. it’s better now, when he no longer has to go sleep at home, when there are warm bodies to welcome him to bed, natasha’s sleepy smile and andrei’s soft, open-mouthed kisses pressed lazily to his skin.

it’s better now that he’s not alone.

pierre doesn’t know how to love himself, not quite, but he’s learning.


	55. andrei/pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> reincarnation au where only one of andrierretasha remembers vov

she sees them first in the library, heads bowed close together, their faces so soft and smiling that she feels as if all the air has been sucked from the room. andrei’s face is free from stress lines, and pierre’s eyes are bright and joyous in a way that she’d never seen before. her books slip from numb fingers, loud in the quiet library as they hit the floor, and there’s no recognition in either of their faces when they look over.

* * *

 

they are sitting on a park bench together, her face tilted up to the sun their fingers gently intertwined, and andrei nearly trips over his own two feet at the sight of them. marya presses a hand to his arm, her expression worried, but her words just sound like buzzing in his ears. pierre has, by this point, looked over, his expression gone from quiet adoration to distant curiosity, the face of a stranger. andrei, heart in his throat, nods briskly and moves on, marya’s fingers curled tightly at his elbow.

* * *

 

it is winter and pierre feels the bite of cold at his cheeks, burning as he ducks into the cozy little coffeeshop on the corner, unwinding his scarf from around his neck. he tugs his gloves off as he sidles up to the bar and the smiling barista takes his order with a chipper  _coming right up!_ there is a couple seated to his left and pierre glances at them, idly, then freezes. he feels very hot, all of a sudden, breathless; sharp eyes, honeyed curls,  _andrei and natasha._ pierre says softly, “oh,” and they look at him as one, and natasha gives a smile- vacant and polite, a stranger’s smile- and andrei’s lips twist in approximation of a greeting before they both turn away again and pierre is left reeling, cold from more than just the weather. he takes his cup and pays with stiff, mechanical movements, and feels as if he were going to throw up.


	56. andrei/pierre, NSFW

 

 

pierre supposes he should feel guilty for this, and a part of him does.

he thinks of natasha and her pale, tear stained face and how she had all but collapsed into him, how she had cried and kissed his cheek and fled the room once he’d expressed that tender longing that had gnawed at him for years.

he thinks of helene and the gentle smiles she had given him during their courtship, how she had placed her delicate hands in his own and laughed and called him clever, how lovely she had looked at the altar and how she had turned away from him on their wedding night and every night since.

andrei kisses him again, drawing him back, something low and languorous and deep. he shifts his hips and pierre stifles a gasp, but it is an empty house and this isn’t one of their quick little rendezvous, and there’s no reason to keep silent but muscle memory forces him to be so.

he tangles his fingers in andrei’s hair and presses their foreheads together, his breath coming sharp with every shift, every movement, every stilted, clumsy thrust. in all their years this is the only time that they have made love in an actual bed and pierre wants to weep with the symbolism of it, with the tenderness and care that he’s shown, with the weight of andrei’s dark eyes upon him.

pierre touches him in turn with all the softness he can muster and andrei leans into every touch, eyes fluttering shut, dark eyelashes kissing his cheeks in the dim candlelight. pierre cups his cheeks, runs his hands down his throat, along his collarbone, over his shoulders; andrei’s nails dig into his skin and pierre breathes out, low and long.

he knows, on some level, that this is andrei’s goodbye. he doesn’t want it to end and still it does, and afterwards he lays there in the dark with the sheets damp with sweat, the insides of his thighs sticky and uncomfortable, lets himself be coddled.

“i love you,” andrei whispers against his throat and pierre lets the sound of it sink into his chest, lets it carve him up inside, lets the fat, hot tears finally fall against the pillow.

andrei goes


	57. pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pierretasha + holding hands and watching the sunrise in the morning

neither of them were particularly early risers but when pierre had risen from the bed in the wee hours of the morning, shaken and dragging a sheet along with him, natasha could scarcely help but to follow along after him.

they sit, now, perched in the window seat, facing each other. it’s cramped- the seat was scarcely big enough for pierre himself, let alone pierre  _and_ natasha- but neither of them mind, already used to being pressed into each other’s space.

outside, the sky is painted shades of deep purple and blushing pink, flush with the burgeoning sunrise. natasha’s face is all but pressed to the glass, her eyes wide with delight, the blanket slipping lower off her shoulders; the sunrise paints her in shades of watery gold and she is beautiful.

pierre can’t help but let the soft smile spread across his face, pulling his own blanket closer. after all he had been through- after all they had  _both_ been through- the fact that they were here, safe and happy and blissfully in love, was surely some proof of mercy in the world.


	58. andrei/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe fluffy Natasha/Andrei? Or Andrierretasha as an alternative

it was, in all regards, a rather typical courtship, but still natasha could not help but feel the magic in it, in the warm way she felt when andrei smiled at her, or how the world seemed just a bit more vibrant when he laughed.

her mother tuts, at first, over how much older he is- fourteen years, really!- but she softens quickly enough in the face of natasha’s smitten excitement, once she sees just how  _wonderful_ they are together, that he loves her just as much as she loves him.

when andrei comes and asks to speak with her privately, the countess gives natasha a knowing look and a proud smile before sweeping out of the room, and natasha looks up into andrei’s eyes and knows her answer before he’s even asked the question.

 

 


	59. andrei/pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> andrierre musing about the concept of love by a fireplace, midwinter, and as they talk they realize they're in love with each other

andrei says, “have you ever been in love?” and pierre nearly drops his book.

it was a forward question to ask but particularly so for andrei, who had always been reticent in his emotions, hesitant to admit to feeling. pierre peers at him, almost disbelievingly, but andrei is not looking at him and instead keeps his eyes firmly on the fire in the hearth, joyful flames casting flickering light across his face.

“i don’t suppose i have, no,” pierre says slowly, gingerly setting his book aside, somewhere safe where it wouldn’t be dropped or bent or otherwise damaged. carefully, because talking to andrei about  _feelings_ was like trying to soothe a spooked horse, he asks, “what makes you ask?”

andrei’s mouth tightens into a thin line, corners turning down in displeasure, and pierre fears for a moment that he may not answer. “with lise,” andrei begins eventually, sounding reluctant, “i had thought i loved her, at first. she was a sweet woman, kind and mild and agreeable. she was utterly loyal, and everyone said it would be a good match. but eventually i… found her devotion stifling, her mildness boring, and by that point it was too late to break off the engagement.”

pierre sighs a little, aching; he knew that his friend had cared for lise, in his own way, and had been wracked with guilt after her death.

“i think,” pierre starts, the words coming to him along with a dawning realization, “that you must respect someone before you can truly love them. that there must be some sort of- some sort of pre-existing affection for which love- that is,  _true_  love- can take root.”

his voice stutters off when andrei finally-  _finally-_ turns to look at him, expression colored with something like stunned surprise, his eyebrows raised. pierre likes to think that it’s easier for him to read andrei, after all these years; there was surprise in his expression, yes, but something more familiar, something like realization, something like coming home.

pierre smiles, slow and hesitant, a question,  _you too?_ and andrei smiles back,  _yes, of course, how could i not?_


	60. pierre-centric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> can I get some touch-starved pierre?

he had fooled himself for so long into thinking that he could exist alone, solitary. he had tried attachments and they got him nowhere: helene was as distant as the stars in the sky, and fedya had mocked him and betrayed him in the worst way possible. and it had all hurt so very, very badly.

so pierre drew into himself, took his hurt and his bitterness and wore it like armor, but it never fit quite right. he never truly had it in himself to be  _cruel._

their touches linger, natasha’s fingers around his wrist or andrei’s hand resting briefly on his arm, and they  _burn,_ so much that he can feel them hours later and finds himself surprised that they haven’t left welts on his skin. 

in the days afterward he aches, filled with some sort of bittersweet longing. he wants to be touched, again, even if just in an innocent way- a brush of hands, a clap on his shoulder. he wants- no,  _needs_ it- like a drowning man and air.


	61. pierre-centric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: must include an easel, a luckless love, and an animal companion

he had tried his hand at painting, once, not long after his marriage to helene when things still seemed rosy and soft, flush with happiness and hope for the future. he had put it in an empty parlor with tall windows that flooded the room with sweet, airy sunlight and looked over the immaculately kept gardens.

the wooden floor creaks beneath his feet, now, the pale walls painted gold with the dying sun. the easel was covered with a sheet, the expensive paints carefully packed away; half-painted canvases sat collecting dust in the corner. pierre goes to pick one up, runs his finger over the dried paint.

the sketch was clumsy, amateur work, but clearly a tiger cat surrounded by flowers, half-rendered in delicate shades of yellow and pink and green. memories, then, of a happier time- the cat had been an old mouser, he thinks, a tomcat grown fat and comfortable on table scraps, living out his later years int the sunbathed garden.

pierre aches, places the canvas back on the ground, leans it up against the wall. he walks out, takes one last deep breath of the stale, dusty air, and closes the door behind him.


	62. andrei/pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I would love some Andrierre fluff (bonus points for forehead/nose kisses)

sometimes, when andrei woke from his nightmares, pierre woke alongside him, dragged from sleep by soft, distressed noises and the shifting of the mattress. often, he doesn’t move- andrei’s discomfort upon the realization that pierre was also awake was obvious and awkward- but sometimes he does, sometimes he gives a sleepy murmur and throws an arm around andrei’s waist, pulling him back down against the mattress, pulling him close. 

andrei stills in his hold, breath stuttering, and pierre sighs a little, half-yawn, and presses his face to the crook of andrei’s neck. he presses a kiss there, sleepy, sloppy, and nuzzles closer before settling. andrei is unmoving against him but he thaws all at once, the air leaving him in a gusty sigh, body slackening as if some great force were holding him in place. he turns a little, noses through pierre’s curls- his lips are cold when they press against pierre’s forehead in a rare fit of affection. 

“go back to sleep.” pierre’s voice is little more than a hoarse whisper, still rough with the lingering traces of sleep. andrei lays his hand against the back of pierre’s neck, callouses catching on the fine little hairs there.

“i will, soon,” andrei says, hushed, but pierre is already dozing and insensible. andrei snakes his arms around him, cradles him like something precious, and closes his eyes; the warmth reminds him that he’s not alone.


	63. pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> one-sided. its been 82 years. (very much miniseries-based.)

every time he sees her some tender longing curls in him, clenches between his ribs, crawls into his throat and chokes him.

 _you are so lovely,_ he wants to tell her, desperately, and she’s older now and more world-worn, her heartbreak held in her eyes. she keeps her hair pinned up, soft sunlight falling on the pale slope of her neck, catching gold in the curls that frame her face.  _darling natasha._

she rarely smiles anymore, a small turn of her mouth reserved for his visits, and he holds the memory of them close to his chest because he remembers her tears, the gasping sobs she took as she trembled in his arms. he had known then that she trusted, him, even loved him- but not in the way that she loved andrei, not in the way that  _he_ loved andrei, not in the way he wanted and felt so wretched for.

but her laughter was like bells, her face soft as her dainty hands danced across the ivory keys of the harpsichord. and she would turn to him, eyes alight and say  _dear pierre,_ and how could he be expected not to love her? god could not be so cruel as to put her in his life and expect him to be indifferent. natasha was bright like the sun and he found himself turning to her, always, warmed.

pierre was married, and miserable, and too awful of a man to be graced with her love.


	64. dolokhov/pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:
> 
> “Can I have just one kiss?” hhhmmm fytor

“come now, petrushka,” comes dolokhov’s voice, cajoling and deceptively amiable, “just a kiss for a friend?”

and pierre flushes- beyond the alcohol, beyond the heat of the room- because nothing with dolokhov was ever  _friendly._ he was a hard man, a cruel man, pierre had no illusions about that; each and every single one of them that followed after kuragin like dogs had succumbed to their vices in one way or another.

dolokhov, pierre thinks, was one of his. 

his eyes are a cold, cold blue as he peers at pierre from over the rim of his wine glass, something strange lurking in his expression that makes pierre’s stomach twist nervously. he reaches for his own glass and throws it back, swallowing the bitter taste of red wine. the alcohol is fortifying; he doesn’t wither beneath fedya’s gaze.

“alright,” he says finally, though his voice shakes a bit and something quails inside of him. “i’ll kiss you.”

for the first time fedya seems surprised, and it’s strange how it seems to soften the hard angles of his face, smoothing away his meanness. they stay there a moment, silent in limbo- someone hollers in the next room over, followed by ragged cheers, banging, a smattering of applause and the sound of shattering glass.

fedya surges forward- and, oh, his hands are warm,  _why hadn’t pierre thought his hands would be warm?_ \- calloused palms sliding around the back of pierre’s neck as he jerks him down into a kiss. it’s nothing romantic, too hungry, too demanding. fedya bites down hard on pierre’s lip and he can’t help the soft noise that he makes, or the way that his hands go to fedya’s shoulders, fingers curling tight into his blouse.

h can feel the sharp cut of fedya’s smirk against his mouth, then, and the embarrassment rears its head again, the shame the bubbles up in him. he shoves him away and wipes his mouth on his sleeve, studiously ignoring the way that fedya laughs at him as he forgoes his glass and reaches for the bottle to wash away the taste of him. 

fedya crowds close to him again, presses a sound kiss to pierre’s cheek, and pierre tries not to seem too perturbed though he knows that he fails rather miserably.

“and what a kiss,” says fedya, his voice too low, too close, his hand heavy where it rests on pierre’s arm, “all good shows deserve a second performance, don’t you think?”


	65. andrei/pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:
> 
> “Is there any part of you, deep down, that might love me back?” for andrierre?

he did not suffer in silence because he thought to make himself some sort of martyr. love was meant to be this gentle, understanding thing but instead it gnawed at him, painful, hollowing him from the inside out. it crowded his tongue every time he spoke, that awful longing rising up and choking him.

now, though, they teeter on a knife’s edge. andrei, flush with the joy of new love, watches pierre flounder, his smile fading into something that pierre fears is understanding. andrei sighs, “oh, dear friend.”

pierre says, “don’t-”

“i am truly sorry, pierre,” is what andrei cuts him off with, “you love her as well, don’t you?”

“what?”

“it’s in your eyes.”

and yes, pierre supposed that he did care for natasha, in some way- she was a lovely girl, bright and kind and lively, and he  _adored_ her, could see himself loving her- but natasha hadn’t been his friend of over a decade, natasha hadn’t been the one to at up with him late at night reading by the fire, natasha wasn’t the person he dreamed of waking up next to and kissing and  _loving._

“no, no, dear andrei,” he says with pursed lips, almost upset. “no, i’m very fond of natasha, she’s a sweet girl, truly, but… no.”

“pardon, what-”

he can’t help it, really, the way the words burst from him in a rushed gust of breath, trembling at the back of his throat. “it’s you.”

abrupt, sudden. they stare at each other in silence for a heartbeat before pierre looks away, shoulders sagging. his knees felt weak, his throat tight- this was surely the end, then. he felt sick with it; andrei would leave, disgusted, because while he may not be particularly pious, this depravity must have been more than any man could bear.

“me?” andrei asks, quiet, as pierre sinks back into his chair, elbows on his desk. he seemed discomfited; emotional confrontation had always been out of andrei’s depth.

“it’s always been you,” pierre says, and he just feels  _tired._ he pushes up his spectacles, presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. “god above, andrei, it’s always been you.”

they are quiet for so long that pierre is almost sure that andrei has left, and he gives a gusty sigh. he aches, feels raw and wrung out, even from just that short interaction; he needed a drink, or three.

but then a hand settles on his shoulder, and andrei sighs, says in that same pitying, uncomfortable way as before, “dear pierre.”

and, oh, the hope that wells in him then is pathetic and burning. andrei hadn’t left, didn’t seem disgusted with him. pierre looks up, slow, and meets his eyes; andrei had always been intense, almost unbearably so, but there was something warm in his gaze, his expression soft in a way pierre rarely saw it.

“do you think,” pierre starts, then stops, his voice cracking. his places his hand over andrei’s on his shoulder. “do you think, if things had been different, that you could have loved me, as well?”

“i believe i could have,” andrei answers, quiet, almost unsure. “i… i believe i do.”


	66. pierre & natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sequel to [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12055869/chapters/27301806). content warning for discussion of natasha's suicide attempt.

she could see it, in the careful blankness of his expression, that he resented her. 

pierre- dearest,  _darling_ pierre- had always been easy to read. he cried at the slightest provocation, his temper aroused with a few nudges, he wore heartbreak clean and clear across his face. but here, now- there was nothing.

he hated her. natasha’s stomach sank. 

she turns, unbound hair curtaining her face. she was undressed- in only a dressing down and her nightclothes- but what did it matter? she had thrown away her reputation when she had decided to elope with- with  _kuragin._

“why did you do it?” the words sound abrupt, clumsy, and when natasha glances up, pierre’s expression is embarrassed and almost contrite. she had expected him to rail at her, to yell, to call her a harlot and a whore and berate her for breaking his best friend’s heart- and she would have let him. it was nothing less than what she deserved.

she hadn’t expected him demanding answers.

“i…” she starts, a bit at a loss, feeling hollow. “i loved him. i thought i did, at least.”

pierre makes a noise at that, soft, and waves his hand almost impatiently. “no, no. not that. the… the poison.  _arsenic._ why?”

and, oh- that was a new one. no one had ever asked her  _why_ she had done it; it had just been a foregone conclusion. she had ruined herself- she had no future, only that of a spinster. who, after all, would want a tainted girl for a wife? 

“i…. i’m not sure” she says, and her voice is small in the face of pierre’s earnestness. she can feel her throat tightening, choked with tears, and curses herself; she wasn’t a  _child._ “it seemed the only way.”

“oh, tasha,” pierre sighs in that way of his, and he takes careful steps toward her, as if she were a spooked animal. she certainly felt such; she pulls her dressing gown tighter around her body. “arsenic isn’t- it’s a slow, painful death. you wouldn’t want that. you shouldn’t want to die at all.”

he doesn’t sound accusatory or derisive; rather, he sounds like someone who  _understands,_ and natasha can’t help the few tears that trickle down her cheeks. no one had asked, no one had  _tired_ to understand, and here was dear, sad pierre, talking to her of death so frankly.

“i don’t,” she sobs out, and he draws closer, fluttering nervously before he pulls her to his chest, cradling her gently. she curls into him, burying her face into his shoulder, and breathes in deep. he smelled different from andrei and anatole, her father and nikolai, like stale alcohol and lavender and faintly of some sort of spice. “i don’t, pierre, i d-don’t…”

he just holds her tighter, making soft, comforting sounds and hesitatingly running his hand over her hair. eventually her hiccuping sobs recede, leaving her tired and wrung out, but pierre doesn’t push her away and she isn’t keen to let him go, either. 

“i am glad you are here, natasha,” pierre says, and she can  _feel_ his voice, the way it starts low in his chest. she presses her cheek right above his heart and can hear the way his breath catches. “you are, i think, more loved than you believe.”


	67. pierre-centric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:
> 
> Could you write an AU of if Pierre got shot during The Duel instead of Dolokhov?

the pain is delayed, lancing through him sharp and cold after a long, dragging moment of breathless anticipation. he presses his hand to his stomach and looks at the blood as if it were something distant and impersonal, instead of his own life seeming out of him.

he hears a scream- helene- and then her face is hovering above him, panicked (when had he gotten on the ground?) and there is fyodor beside her, looking as ruffled as pierre has ever seen him. helene rises, kicking up snow as she shrieks for someone to fetch a doctor, and fyodor tugs off a glove and presses his hand to pierre’s cold cheek.

“oh, petrushka,” he says, rough, shaken. his fingers twitch slightly as pierre turns his face against fyodor’s hand with what strength he can muster. “oh, you fool, you damned fool…”

“it’s alright, fedya,” pierre says, his voice a pinched whisper, but the smile he gives is sweet and blameless. “it’s- it’s what i wanted, anyway.”


	68. denisov/nikolai

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> three-sentence prompt for this pairing

nikolai looks at him with some strange sort of spark in his eyes and vaska feels something catch in his throat as nikolai reaches for his hand. young rostov’s propensity for unabashed affection always surprised him, though he wasn’t sure why; vaska had seen the home he’d grown up in, how loving his family was, and he struggled to understand why someone as bright and brilliant and shining as nikolai rostov would wish to fight a war. they are neither of them gentle men- soldiers the both of them, though society born- though as nikolai strokes his thumb over his knuckles, vaska can almost believe that they’re meant for happy endings.


	69. andrei/pierre/natasha, pierre-centric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:
> 
> 72 with your favorite war n peace pairing
> 
> (72: “ They’re going to love you, don’t worry! ” )

pierre, regretfully, had left in the last few weeks of natasha’s pregnancy, pulled away by the responsibilities he owed the court and his tenants. she’d seen him off cheerfully, insisting on coming with andrei to the porch as pierre climbed into the carriage, her fingers laced beneath her swollen belly and her face bright with impending motherhood. 

it was andrei alone that greeted him when he returned some weeks later and natasha’s absence made his insides twist with anxiety. but andrei didn’t look aggrieved, like he had after lise had died; instead, he looked nearly joyous, in his own way, his face soft with happiness instead of lined with pain. he watches pierre clamber out of the carriage from his place at the top of the stars, and reaches for pierre once he was in reach.

“come, pierre,” he says with something almost like thinly-veiled excitement, his eyes bright as he links their arms and tugs pierre into the house. it was strange, seeing andrei so animated, but not  _bad._ “we have a daughter, now. we’re  _fathers.”_


	70. dolokhov/pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> francishollahyde asked:
> 
> maybe pierre seeing dolokhov for the first time after their duel?

dolokhov pulls him close and kisses him on the mouth and says, “forgive me, petrushka.”

borodino was to be a bloody battle- the empire’s last effort to repel the french army before they took moscow- and they both knew it. pierre was no soldier, hardened by war; he scarcely knew how to hold a pistol. dolokhov had seen too much in his time to consider himself more man than beast.

“fedya,” pierre breathes, and they are clinging to each other, dolokhov’s calloused hands framing pierre’s face almost sweetly, pierre’s fingers curled in a vise-grip in dolokhov’s coat. “oh, fedya, of course-”

and with such raw sincerity on dolokhov’s face, how could pierre not forgive him? the anger had eaten at him, had hollowed him out; it was only by god’s grace that dolokhov had not died from his wounds. pierre would not have been able to live with himself otherwise, and he was left feeling as if he were the one to apologize.

“i will see you after the battle,” pierre says, his voice shaking only a little. something shifts in dolokhov’s remorseful expression, something strange and foreign, something that could be called tender on any other man, and pierre want to pull him closer, hold him properly. but they are in camp, and he is keenly aware of the eyes on them. “in better times, fedya.”

“no naive, petrushka,” is what dolokhov replies, but he kisses pierre again, all chapped lips and too much force. “after the battle, then.”

 

 


	71. dolokhov/denisov

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> maybe-queen-of-numenor asked:
> 
> you should write something for dolokhov/denisov because i hate dolokhov, love denisov, and am Intrigued

there is nothing gentle between them because dolokhov is not a gentle man, never has been, and denisov is far too rough to mesh into society in the way that nikolai rostov does, effortless and clean and graceful. and certainly neither of them were nikolai rostov, neither of them what the other truly wanted.

but they are both soldiers, calluses and bloody hands, hearts that have known loss. 

they work well together, at the end of the war, but at odds; denisov was a cautious, tactical man who knew the cost of war and cared regardless, but dolokhov was like a rabid dog, eager to be let off his leash and pointed in a direction to attack. 

it was that rashness that had gotten petya rostov killed and denisov lashes out with the grief of it, the pain; the rostovs were his  _family,_ bright and welcoming and gently loving, and he ached with the knowledge of the pain that petya’s loss would bring. he’d insisted on writing the letter himself and scrapped draft after draft, the ink bled with tears.

“vasily,” dolokhov says, taking denisov’s face between his hands, skin rough and cracked from the cold. denisov pushes against him, half-hearted; he wanted simultaneously to beat him and to melt into the strange sort of solace he offered. 

“don’t,” is what vaska responds with, harsh and bitten-off, instead of the myriad of other things he wished to say, instead of  _this is your fault, you bastard,_ or  _he was just a boy and now he’s dead and his blood is on both our souls._

“vasily,” dolokhov says again, sterner this time but not  _hard,_ not in the usual way he spoke, all sharp callousness and teeth. there seemed to be something almost  _tender_ about him but that wasn’t quite right, because fyodor dolokhov was not in any way a soft man. “breathe, vasily.”

and vaska listens and takes a deep breath because there was little else he could do, with dolokhov’s thumbs pressed almost too hard to his cheekbones, cradling his face in just the right way to break his neck. he’s keenly aware of the fact- has seen him do it before, to some poor french bastard prostrate in the bloody snow- and so he just breathes. 

“there, see?” dolokhov’s voice is sweet, condescendingly so, crooning in that oozing, patronizing way that he knows denizov hates. “now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

he wants to bare his teeth at him in mingled grief and anger, but though the pain is still there it is less so, as if weakened by company. denisov swats dolokhov’s hands away and dolokhov releases him without a fuss, watching with cool blue eyes as the other man paces away from him, greatcoat wound tight about him to fend off the cold that the canvas tent couldn’t ward off.

“he’s dead, fyodor,” vaska says, a touch of despondency to his tone, “petya rostov.”

“yes, sweet boy.” the condescension is less, replaced by something more neutral. “those noble rostovs. but it was a brave death, denisov; he died in battle. a warrior.”

all vaska had seen was a child being cut down, but he doesn’t argue the point, doesn’t have the energy to do so. dolokhov’s grip on his arm, then, is just this side of bruising, and he leans back into him until they are pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, soaking in that bit of pathetic comfort that was offered.


	72. andrei/pierre/natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> maybe-queen-of-numenor asked:
> 
> can i ask for andrei angst??

he watches them, sometimes, and can’t help but think about how he deserves neither of them.

natasha and pierre are each gentle creatures, defined by sweet words and soft touches, curled tenderly around each other in sleep. andrei isn’t sure how to allow himself that vulnerability, how to be soft around them.

all he knew of love was that it hurt, that it came paired with loss or distance. he had thought that he loved lise, once, and now she was dead; his father loved him, in a way, but he was a cold, cruel man; he loved his son, little nikolushka, but was so terrified of losing him that he hardly knew him.

but sometimes, sometimes natasha will look at him, her golden hair catching the sunlight, and her smile will be so bright and radiant that he nearly allows himself to smile back. or pierre’s hand will brush over his own, lingering just a moment too long to be unintentional, and andrei will look up and see the affection in his gaze and he almost laces their fingers together. 

but he doesn’t, because he is a hard man, a cruel man, and the both of them- wonderful, splendid- deserve far more than he could offer.

 

 


	73. natasha-centric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> probably the closest i'll ever get to writing anything about anatole

she pities him and perhaps that is the worst part of it all.

after everything, after the disaster he had made of her and the long, long process of healing, natasha looks back on those scant few days with anatole and something small and sad twists in her chest. not because she misses him, no, not even necessarily because she regrets everything now. 

but she closes her eyes and she pictures anatole as she had known him and she sees the restlessness about him, that fierce need in his eyes, a hunger for something she couldn’t quite name and certainly couldn’t provide. she realizes now that he had tried to fill that void with women and men and wine and revelry, with  _her,_ but it wasn’t enough, it never had been.

she wouldn’t have been enough, either.

natasha is glad to be rid of him, of the broken thing he had made of her, but she still feels  _sorry_ for him and the wanting that he felt, that constant sense of dissatisfaction that had hunted him. she can’t help but think of him, sometimes, when andrei’s hand curls around her elbow, or when pierre presses a sweet kiss to her cheek, and she thinks,  _he doesn’t have this, he’ll never have this, will never be happy with the simple joy of life._

she wanted to hate him, desperately, wanted someone else to blame, but she reached into the well of herself and the only things she found for anatole were pity and regret.


	74. dolokhov/pierre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> meshimellow asked:
> 
> okay. alright. fytor with 54 or 70 (i cannot choose so you decide)
> 
> 54\. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. That’s the problem.”

pierre had done many things that he regretted, but none so much as his duel with fedya.

he’d oscillated for some time between vicious satisfaction and wretched grief, in those first few days afterwards, the house empty and quiet with helene’s flight. eventually a letter had been sent informing him of dolokhov’s survival, but until then he had wallowed, thinking that he had killed one of his closest friends and half-believing that he had been justified in doing so.

and then borodino, and fedya, healthy and hale, kissing him and asking him for his forgiveness, expression twisted in some approximation of earnestness. it was the first time they had seen each other since the duel and pierre leans into him- familiar, familiar- and forgives him wholeheartedly.

(he closes his eyes and he can still see the blood in the snow, smell the gunpowder, watch as fedya was hauled away in a sleigh, half-sensible.)

“you could hate me,” fedya tells him some time later, after everything, as they sit in pierre’s study. they take their dinners there, most times when dolokhov visits, the dining room too large for just the two of them. “i wouldn’t mind.”

he says it so flippantly that it makes something in pierre’s chest twist, and he frowns, lowering his wine glass. he hears fedya hum- almost amusement- but ignores it.

“i don’t hate you,” he says in response, too serious by half. “i don’t believe i ever could.”

he looks up and fedya’s eyes are on him, cold, cold blue, but his brows are furrowed in a curious way that pierre has never seen before, his expression considering. he leans back in his chair and pierre fights the urge to squirm under such intense scrutinization.

in the end, though, the only answer he receives is a quiet, “you truly mean that, don’t you?”


	75. andrierre + natasha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sonyalone said:  
> i hugs had a dream last night where i thought up a devastating andrierretasha prompt that i hate, but i can't get it out of my head so here it is: andrierre but andrei cheats on pierre with natasha (it hopefully ends up happy but my dream didn't specify)

pierre was no stranger to the rostov house- he and the count were  _business partners,_ if not acquaintances, and he and the countess got on well- and he can tell today that something is just not quite right.

he slips in the servant’s entrance unannounced as he usually does (a habit picked up before he was titled, one hard to break) and there is laughter from down the hall, in the sitting room. that, too, was typical; the rostovs were a happy, loving family, often joyful. but there was another voice speaking, familiar, one that should not have been there.

“prince andrei,” he hears countess natalya begin just before he rounds the corner, and confusion sparks.

natasha is on her feet as soon as she sees him, delight on her face, her arms winding around his shoulders in a hug. it was perhaps not the most decorus thing but such had always been their way, easy and affectionate. but he had seen her on the couch before she had sprung up, her fingers tangled with andrei’s in a way that was meant to be covert, their knees pressed together as they sat side by side. 

“pierre,” she breathes, and there was joy written across her face, more than his visit warranted.

“natasha,” he responds, and he smiles at her in return, but he can’t help the way that his gaze wanders back over her shoulder to lock with andrei’s something stricken and guilty in the other man’s expression, discernible only because pierre has known him so long. “i see you have a visitor already. i hope i’m not intruding...?”

* * *

 

they do not talk about it for some weeks if only because pierre, coward that he is, finds things to occupy himself with that do not include calling on the younger prince bolkonsky.

he tours his estates, speaking with his serfs and overseeing his fields. he travels outside of that, spends a tense week or two at the petersburg house where he and helene dance around each other, and he neither cares about nor mentions the young men he sees visiting late in the night and leaving early in the morning.

he half hopes, upon returning to moscow, that andrei will come to him with explanations, but it’s a baseless fancy. andrei was ever a proud creature, and an attractive bachelor for any young woman looking to marry; if andrei ever found a woman that he loved, pierre had always known that he would be the one to suffer for it.

(he had gotten hopeful, though, arrogant in the face of andrei’s disdain for lise, soaking in the way that andrei kissed him while his wife languished in the city--)

“you will marry her,” is what pierre says when he sees andrei for the first time in perhaps two months, hopeless and hurt and furious all at once. “you will marry her, and you will love her and make her happy, so help me god-”

“i have already proposed.” if andrei is in anyway alarmed by pierre’s behavior, if this was not at all the reaction he had expected, there is no indication. “she accepted.”

the  _of course_ goes unspoken. 

pierre does not know if he is hurting because he loves natasha or because he loves andrei, but that painful knot in his chest tightens regardless, a vise grip around his heart. he wants to say something, anything, about the hurt or resignation or the hundred questions stuck in his throat.

in the end, the only thing that trips off his tongue is, “do you love her?”

an this time, andrei says it out loud. “of course.”


	76. pierre/natasha, pierre-centric

in the years after it all pierre will sometimes feel guilty, thinking back on his life before.

he will think of helene and how sweet she had been to him, before their marriage, the way she would slip her delicate hand into the crook of his arm, the coy smile that so often lurked about her pretty mouth, the way she would glance at him through dark lashes. there had been rumors even then, rumors that even he had heard, about her insipidness and her passions, but he had always been too enchanted by the way her gowns hugged her body or the way the candlelight flickered across her skin.

he will think of andrei and the somber sternness of him, of how he had been haunted by regret, of the ways his rare smiles would fill pierre up inside. andrei had been kind, in his own way, conservative in his words but tender in his touches, and they would stay up late into the night and talk about books and life and god. their first kiss had been awkward and clumsy and so very right that pierre had nearly called it holy.

but both helene and andrei were dead now, helene by her own hand and andrei by bayonet, and natasha curled close to him in their wedding bed, her nose tucked against his throat. he is so full of love for her that he feels sick with the guilt of it, feeling as if it were a betrayal: a betrayal of andrei who had loved them both so deeply; a betrayal of helene who, for all her faults, had deserved a true and steadfast love that he couldn’t possibly have given her.


	77. andrei-centric

“you’re leaving already?”

marya stands in the doorway to his bedroom haloed in golden light. her face was obscured by shadow, but he could imagine easily: her eyes would be wide and damp with tears, her lips pursed, a tiny furrow between her brows. he turns away, sharp and dismissive.

“you’ve only just returned.” her hand settles on his shoulder and her voice is soft, almost worried. “we’ve missed you terribly, all three of us.”

andrei knows that he has not been the best brother, the best son, the best father. he could have been a far better man than he has been. and he had  _wanted_ to be, for nikolushka, for his sister, for natasha. 

the emptiness that stretched inside of him felt vast and endless. he didn’t know what he wanted now, save to be far from moscow, where he could be in a field and aiming a pistol at kuragin by sunrise.

“i’m needed on the front,” he tells marya, and he hates the way that she bites her lip as she moves into the cone of flickering candlelight, hates the way she looks at him. “kutuzov sends letter after letter requesting my return. you know this, masha.”

and she does, horribly so, thinks of the aching, sinking feeling every time a courier brings news of the war. but andrei was her brother, and she loved him, and she had not had him near to her in such a long time. “you’re needed here, too.”

and he was, really. their father’s health- and mind, ever frail- deteriorated by the day, and it did nikolushka no good to be without not only a mother but a father, as well. marya did the best she could by him, loved him and coddled him, but she would never be able to replace his parents. she needed andrei. nikolushka needed andrei.

and he knew this. of all the truth that andrei had tried to run away from, this was one guilt he had never been able to escape. but he could not stay here, in the moscow house or at bald hills, without seeing lise’s ghost around every corner or without wanting to wring his father’s neck. he could not stay in this city, a mere carriage ride away from natasha, and survive it.

he does not say any of this. instead he rises, knees creaking (he was thirty four years old, no longer a young man, why had he thought so) and kisses marya on the cheek, gentle and distant, and feels the hope seep out of her.

they both knew that he would be leaving. they both knew that he wouldn’t come back.

 

 


	78. pierre-centric

the road to reconciliation, pierre learned, was a long and painful one.

he had not known before this; he had never had anyone to reconcile with, not really. his father had died before he’d had time to start a fuss, and catiche and her sisters had never wanted anything of him save for his money. helene had been cold to him since he had ousted anatole, and had sequestered herself in the petersburg house with her court of lovers. pierre cared little enough on that front; let her do what she wanted, because god knew she would regardless.

but he felt trapped between andrei and natasha, the two people he cared the most for in this world. it had hurt like a knife to the chest to think of them together, but it hurt worse to think of them apart.

he had ferried letters, at first, to and fro, hesitant, probing notes meant to feel out the water. andrei had initially refused them, but with the worst of her melancholy subsided, natasha had been nothing but determined for him to hear her apology. pierre had admired that resilience in her, had seen it shining out of every pore.

“just take it,” he had sighed to andrei eventually, letter outstretched. “you don’t have to read it or write back, but please just take it.”

and andrei had looked vaguely mutinous but had taken the letter anyway, the paper crinkling slightly in his grasp. he spares pierre a look and then opens it carefully, eyes flicking over whatever words natasha had seen fit to write.

“i’ll consider it,” andrei says eventually, glancing at pierre only briefly, as if he would find some sort of judgement in his gaze, as if pierre hadn’t begged him time and time again to find room in his heart to forgive natasha.

pierre doesn’t judge; he smiles instead, and feels suddenly lighter.


End file.
